


Buried Beneath the Snow

by ConnorRK



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Choking, Consensual Sex, Daddy Kink, Depression, Eden Club (Detroit: Become Human), Electrocution, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Knifeplay, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Object Penetration, Rape, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, bad guy gavin reed, non-permanent genital mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17585162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: Gavin turns the cellphone in his hands, nearly shoving it into Hank’s face as he leans closer to see, and then his jaw goes slack.It’s a photo of an android on his back on pale purple sheets. Naked, legs spread. His mouth is open mid-moan, head tilted to the side, looking at the camera from beneath his lashes, but Hank’s eyes catch on the soft fall of dark brown hair across a forehead, the strong jawline and cheekbones, and he recoils.Fuck, it’s Connor. No, it can’t be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my submission for the 2018 HankCon Big Bang! I have been sitting on this for so long, dying to post it, but my patience has paid off and it's finally time. I have to thank the wonderful artists I was paired with, [electric-origami](electric-origami.tumblr.com) and [thatlilbeansprout](https://thatlilbeansprout.tumblr.com/), who illustrated some absolutely beautiful scenes for this fic that I'm still so shook by. ;o; Thank you two, it was a pleasure!
> 
> You can check out thatlilbeansprout's piece [here](https://thatlilbeansprout.tumblr.com/post/182503637075/buried-beneath-the-snow-gavin-turns-the) and electric-origami's piece [here](https://twitter.com/ConnorRK_/status/1092330855329157121)! (Electric-origami kindly allowed me to host it on my twitter, and the beautiful cover in this first chapter is by her!)
> 
> I also have Kai to thank for the plot of this fic--months before I signed up for the big bang, we came up with this together, building on each other's ideas, until it had a complete arch. I just went in and added the details. I want to thank everyone who's helped me revise this and encouraged me while I was writing--Lt, Alex, Bambi, Helig, and the other members of our nasty little server too! :smooches: Any mistakes left are purely my own lol.
> 
> I also made a playlist for my fic in the days leading up to posting, because I was so hype. You can listen to that [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/captainsunder/playlist/65zlZNenxbcdOuMcXSmGJi?si=sCZfyhVeSp2_03_LMujNfw)!
> 
> Finally, this is a very explicit, post-failed revolution Eden Club fic, the circumstances of which should become clear as you read. As always, noncon scenes will have a double dash to mark the beginning of them, and I'll indicate those in the chapter notes as well.

****

****His head pounds like gunfire, a pulsing whine building in his ears as he picks himself off the floor for the third time this week. It’s only Wednesday. Using the table and his toppled chair as leverage, he drags himself up, and then doubles over as his guts surge up his throat. Acrid vomit splashes on his bare toes and ankles, and Hank groans raggedly between each sour heave.

The gentle jingle of Sumo’s collar has him looking up, and he shoves the dog’s head away weakly when Sumo leans down to sniff the puddle of vomit, saying, “No, Sumo, bad. Go lay down.” Sumo opens his mouth in a wide, panting grin as his tail sways happily.

Hank bitches and groans loudly as he straightens, the kitchen spinning wildly around him. He stumbles to the sink, rinsing his mouth and spitting it down the drain, but it does nothing to clear the foul taste caught on his tongue.

Wet lapping sounds reach his ears, and he jerks around, already shouting, “Sumo, stop that, that’s disgusting!” Sumo just lifts his head from and licks his chops. “Bad dog, go lay down!” Hank points to the living room, and Sumo finally pads out, looking over his shoulder questioningly on the way.

Hank sighs and grabs the chair, tilting it upright and dropping into it with a heavy sigh. His cell phone blinks at him from between empty takeout boxes and bottles, and he checks his notifications with a hand pressed tight to one eye, feeling the pulse of his headache against his palm.

Missed call from Jeffrey, missed call from Ben, two messages about his new case assignment, all received at 8am. It’s half past eleven now. He tosses it back to the table without reading them and covers his other eye, a yawn roaring out of him.

He doesn’t want to think about the gun on the table, the picture of Cole laying face down amidst the trash, the fact that he doesn’t even have a picture of the second person he failed in his life. So he doesn't. He heaves himself out of the chair and stumbles through the living room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Cleans his feet off and grabs the mop behind the door.

It takes him ten minutes to clean up the puke, gagging at the smell of whiskey-flavored stomach acid. Briefly he thinks of clearing the garbage off the table, but he tells himself he’ll do it when he gets back.

Back to the bathroom and he strips, doesn’t think about how last year an android shoved him into his bathtub and turned the cold water on to sober him up and drag him to an android sex club. Just steps into the shower and closes his eyes, swaying on his feet, resisting the urge to lay down in his tub and pass out again. He needs to show up to work sometime, dammit.

The house is quiet. He finds clothes he actually remembered to wash last week, wrinkled though they are because he hadn’t found the energy to hang them properly, and heads out the door after running a cursory brush through his wet hair. He’ll roll the windows down and let it air dry.

Sunlight jabs white hot needles into his brain, and he digs through his glove box and finds a pair of shades that he nearly pokes an eye out with when he shoves them on too roughly.

“Motherfucker!” he shouts, and then jams them on his face, pulling out of his driveway a little too wildly, but it’s not like anyone’s around at this hour. Most people are at work, like he should be.

The precinct is crawling, it’s practically their busiest time of the day, and Hank doesn’t bother removing his shades as he finds a spot to park in the back lot and enters through the lobby. The android receptionist greets him and he gives a gruff, “Hey,” in return—it’s more than he would have said before last November, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Her light green eyes contain no hint of dissatisfaction with his terrible greeting though. Hurrying through into the bullpen, he doesn’t think about how for a few months a harried human had held that position, because their previous android receptionist had been dragged into the street and shot when the order went out.

“Anderson,” Jeffrey calls before he can even make it to his desk, and Hank growls beneath his breath. Then, “Reed! My office!” which catches Hank by surprise.

He turns and spots Reed, dropping his legs from his desk and throwing a suspicious look Hank’s way. Then Hank’s eyes catch on _it_ and he spins away quickly, marching towards Jeffrey’s office, ignoring the sounds of two pairs of feet following.

“Hank, take those off,” Jeffrey says in lieu of a greeting.

Dropping down into one of the chairs in front of Jeffrey’s desk, Hank shoves the glasses up into his hair, not caring if it makes him look like a middle aged soccer mom, and crosses his arms. “Morning, Hank, nice day, Hank,” he says sourly. “How are you? Oh, just fine Jeffrey, thanks for asking.”

“It’s noon,” Jeffrey says flatly. “Next time answer your damn phone.” Glancing up when the door opens, Jeffrey says, “Reed, have a seat."

Gavin takes the other chair and Hank doesn’t turn, but he feels the _thing_ at the back of the room, watching them with pale eyes in a face too stoic and hard. He shifts, fingers digging into his arms.

“I’ve got two cases, you get your pick, but I want you two for these. Figure out which one you want and don’t be an ass about it, okay?” Fowler slides a tablet across his desk, and Hank snags it before Gavin can, ignoring Gavin’s scowl and flicking through the details.

The first one is a kidnapping turned homicide when the body of a teen turned up in the Detroit River this morning. He scrolls through to the brief on the second, sees the words, “Eden Club,” and shoves the tablet into Reed’s chest, earning him a disgruntled, “Hey, watch it!”

“I’ll take the first one,” Hank says quickly. Sweat breaks out across his neck and back and his stomach rolls alarmingly. He knows that _thing_ probably isn’t actually staring at him, but if fucking feels like it.

“Hey, wait a fucking second!” Reed says, fumbling with the tablet before getting it straight and flicking through it with quick, angry movements. His posture relaxes as he reads, and the look he shoots Hank is downright gleeful. “What, too much of a prude to check out the sex club? Didn’t think you were the old moralist type, Anderson.”

“Shut the fuck up, Reed,” Hank says thinly. “I’ve got the first one, send me the details.” Without waiting for a reply, Hank heaves himself out of the chair, staring hard at the bullpen outside the glass as he passes the _thing_ and practically throws the door open in his haste to escape.

Fuck, he’s sweating like a pig. Bypassing his desk he shoves into the bathroom, thankfully empty, and jerks the knob on the closest sink. Water sloshes out, and he cups a hand under the spray, splashing it on his face, focusing on the cold shock against his hot cheeks. He’s breathing fast, too fast, and he braces his arms on the counter, leaning over the basin, trying not to hurl again.

The mirror shows him a pathetic sight, water running down his pale cheeks and darkening his scraggly beard, the dumb fucking gap between his teeth that he’s always hated visible with every panting breath. The sunglasses on his head are slipping down, and he jerks them off and throws them onto the counter with a clatter.

He hears the door open, and he straightens, pretending that he’s okay, that he’s not having a fucking anxiety attack or what-the-fuck-ever in the precinct bathroom at twelve in the afternoon.

“Lieutenant, your stress levels are quite high. I came to make sure you did not need assistance,” an achingly familiar voice says, and Hank wants to bash his head into the counter and fucking scream. His knuckles are bone white, fingers gripping the counter hard. He says nothing, eyes dropping to the water swirling down the drain.

“If you do not require assistance, please let me know. Otherwise, I will notify Captain Fowler that you are in some distress,” it says blandly.

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” Hank finally snaps, twisting his head to glare daggers at the android.

It’s face is vacuous, worse even than how Connor’s was, pouring Hank’s drink onto the floor and telling him in that audaciously bland tone, _“I think we can go now.”_ Except for the ice blue eyes and its towering height, it looks just like Connor, and Hank turns his glare back to the mirror, not wanting to look at it for long.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the RK900 nod slightly, and say, “Very well.” It leaves without another word, and Hank slumps over the sink on his elbows.

He hates those things. There’s three of them wandering around the station, and he can’t exactly tell the difference between them, but he’s pretty sure that one was Gavin’s. Jeffrey offered him one, when the city first bought them, because he’d worked well with Connor. Hank hadn’t reacted well, and even now the memory of the screaming match he’d gotten into makes him angry all over again.

It’s like he’s gone fucking crazy since November. After the last of the android resistance were gunned down and the leader of the androids was taken by CyberLife, it hadn’t taken long for things to return to normal. There hadn’t been many human casualties from the peacefully protesting androids, after all.

Everyone acts like nothing’s changed, like androids weren’t begging for the right to not be used and abused and killed like animals less than a year ago, and like they aren’t all doing the exact same thing over again. CyberLife is churning out androids same as it ever was, with the promise that the deviancy problem has been worked out of them, and people buy that bullshit like they buy everything else—with aplomb. People don’t remember how to live without androids anymore, and the unemployment rate is rising quickly to pre-uprising numbers. Nobody learned a fucking thing.

Maybe it really has been worked out of them, Hank doesn’t know. He looks at the new, deviancy-proof androids and they don’t seem any different than before the uprising. Docile machines that do the jobs that no one wants to pay a human to do. It makes him feel like a fool, greeting their receptionist android each time he comes in, hoping to see something different in her eyes and disappointed each time.

The RK900s that work the crime scenes are the worst, though. They don’t even get designations, they’re programmed not to accept being called anything other than RK900. He can’t bring himself to talk to them, to greet them and act like everything’s the same, because it’s not. Not when he has to see these machines wearing his old partner’s face.

He hates them, but only because seeing them reminds Hank of how much he hates himself.

Tearing a paper towel from the dispenser, Hank wipes his face, tucks his sunglasses into his pocket, and finally heads back to his desk, now that his breathing is under control.

The files for his new case are in an email, and he downloads them and opens them up, shoving everything else to the back of his mind so he can pretend to be a functional member of law enforcement for a few hours.

It works, for a while. After about an hour, he heads out to where the body was found so he can see things for himself. The body itself has long since been taken in for autopsy, but Hank combs the banks of the river, and in the back of his mind he hears Connor’s voice making observations.

_“The body was found in an unnatural state of decay considering the August temperature, the amount of time the teen was missing, bloating from the water, and the presumed time of death.”_

He can imagine Connor leaning down, dipping his fingers in the silt and touching it to his tongue, but he can’t come up with whatever analysis Connor would have had. Shaking his head, he heads back to the car, feet heavy and slow.

His stomach grumbles for something to eat, but his first thought, the Chicken Feed, only makes him think of Connor, leaning against the table and throwing Hank a goofy little wink.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, and turns the nose of his car towards home.

He can’t escape Connor’s ghost. He haunts Hank in his own home, and the guilt guides Hank to his hardest whiskey, not wasting time with a glass, just tipping the bottle of Black Lamb to his mouth and taking two long swallows before the burn becomes overwhelming. It’s not even 5 o’clock, but he doesn’t give a damn.

Letting Sumo out the back to run in the yard, Hank takes the bottle to his couch and throws himself into it, kicking his shoes off under the coffee table. He doesn’t bother to turn the TV on, doesn’t want to risk seeing news about CyberLife or Kamski.

Even without the reminder, his head is full of Connor, and he sinks into the cushions, staring darkly at the blank TV.

It’s all Hank’s fault. Connor was just following his programming, doing the only thing he’d known. Hank should have helped him, should have bought him some time so he could go into the archive and find whatever he needed. Fuck, at least then he might still have his partner.

 _“Maybe these deviants deserve a chance,”_ he’d said. But hadn’t Connor deserved one too? The memory of his own last words to Connor eat at Hank, but he can’t stop hearing them in his head. _“Maybe it’s better if you don’t find them. What’s happening here is too important to let it be stopped by a machine. Sorry, Connor. But I’m not gonna help you.”_

Hank takes another slug of whiskey, wishing it burned harder, that it worked faster. He can still think too clearly, still see the confusion in those dark brown eyes, still feel regret and guilt like a slug in his gut. He’d genuinely thought Connor might have been on the verge of going deviant himself, but Hank hadn’t wanted to risk it, not when he could still remember Connor leaving Hank to pull himself up onto the roof alone. The cold way he’d stepped up to Hank’s gun, defying Hank to shoot him.

Seems like not helping Connor didn’t matter in the end, and Hank didn’t even say goodbye. Just left Connor to fail his mission and return to CyberLife to be disassembled, alone. Was he scared to return?

Hank remembers the aftermath of leaving Kamski's place, the trembling uncertainty in Connor’s voice.

“Fuck,” Hank mutters, standing abruptly. The head rush makes him sway dizzily, and he realizes he’s drunker than he thought as he stumbles into the kitchen and finds the revolver right where he left it.

Standing at the kitchen table, his fingers find the smooth handle, doesn’t even bother to check the chamber or spin it. He takes another long swallow, swaying on his feet, then raises the gun to his temple. The golden afternoon sun floods through his living room window, and he hears Sumo in the backyard, his deep, excited barks.

Hank pulls the trigger.

It clicks empty.

“Fuck you,” he says, and tosses it to the table, turning to let Sumo back in.

-

Nothing changes. Same shit different day. He greets the android receptionist and ignores the RK900s. It’s fucking depressing. He doesn’t think of Connor, which is a lie, and misses the days when his only sorrow was his son. Mourning two people whose lives were cut short is too much.

His case is progressing exactly nowhere, but he comes into work each day, even if it’s hours late, and makes an effort. The kid deserves to have whoever did this to him found, and Hank is gonna try, if only to keep his mind off of everything else. He knocks on doors and asks questions and doesn’t find out anything except that the kid was going to spend the night with his girlfriend the weekend he disappeared. It’s a start.

Gavin keeps giving him these weird fucking looks whenever they’re both in the station at the same time, smug as shit, like he knows something Hank doesn’t, but for once he keeps his mouth shut. It’s a blessing and a curse, because it rankles to know Gavin feels like he’s got one up on Hank for any reason.

He figures Gavin will spill eventually—he’s the gloating type, and if he thinks he’s got something on Hank, he’s definitely not gonna let that opportunity go to waste.

It’s hard to hold in a small smirk when Gavin finally approaches him as Hank is clearly getting ready to head out, gathering his phone and keys.

“Hey, Anderson, come grab lunch with me,” Gavin says, more a demand than a request.

“Not a chance, Reed,” Hank says, frowning, brushing past him and heading for the lobby. Despite his curiosity, he has no desire to hang out with Gavin for any extended amount of time, especially with his android shadow.

The RK900 falls into step behind Reed, who follows Hank and catches his arm. Hank jerks his arm away but stops, turning to him with an exasperated sigh.

“Look Reed, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’m not going anywhere with you. Now fuck off,” he snaps.

“Chill out, Anderson, I found something interesting on one of my cases, thought you might want to see,” Gavin says, smirking very punchably.

“If it’s about the case, can’t you just email it to me?” Hank says, turning to go again.

Before he can get through the gate to the lobby, Gavin catches his arm again, not letting go when Hank tries to toss it off irritably. “I could email it to you, but I figured you’d thank me more if I didn’t. It’s not strictly about the case, and, well—not exactly something you’d want anyone catching you looking at.”

Well, shit if that doesn’t pique his interests. What could Gavin have possibly found, unrelated to the murder, that Hank would be interested in? He remembers too well the girls climbing the fence to escape. It’s the only relation between himself and the Eden Club he can see, and he hopes to God the lie he told on his paperwork about not finding the deviant android isn’t about to come to light from Gavin of all people. It would explain why Gavin decided not to just email him. If Fowler or someone else caught him with evidence that contradicted what he’d reported, he’d be in deep shit.

Thinking of the Eden Club just brings up memories of Connor, looking lost and confused about his own decision not to shoot, and Hank shakes his head to clear it away, focusing on Gavin.

His mouth moves before his mind can even catch up. “Alright, fine, but that thing stays here.”

Gavin glances over his shoulder at the RK900. “Hey, you heard the man, go wait at my desk, tincan.”

It turns without a word or a twitch to its perfect face and heads to Gavin’s desk, coming to a stop and standing stock-still. Connor never listened to him like that—he would have immediately had some reason he needed to stay with Hank ready, something about priorities in his mission. Hank rips his eyes from it and finds Gavin watching him with that same, knowing smirk.

“Well?” Hank says irritably.

Gavin shrugs and leads the way through the gate. They cut through the lobby and out the front, onto the busy sidewalk. It’s hot as balls, and Hank shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over his arm as he follows Gavin down the street and into a sandwich shop. It’s got a rustic, homey looking interior that looks plastic and fake the longer he gazes at the artfully faded decorations and the tiny silver buckets with silk flowers planted on each table.

Gavin falls into line at the counter so Hank does too, grumbling, “We’re out of the station, can’t you just tell me whatever you found so I can go?”

“Have some patience, old man,” Gavin says, far too chipper. It makes Hank want to walk out right now, but his natural curiosity is winning the fight, so he grumbles but waits until his turn to order. It’s way too expensive for just a sandwich and a coffee, but he doesn’t complain at the android cashier like he wants to. There wouldn’t be a point. The android takes Hank’s grumbled order like any other command and hands Hank his change with a plastic smile.

Gavin picks a table at the very back, and Hank doesn’t miss how it has no other customers nearby. Hank sits with a glare that Gavin doesn’t acknowledge, scrolling through his phone while sipping on a coffee topped a mile high with whipped cream. It makes Hank snort with amusement. Like this, Gavin could almost be any other asshole, and not specifically the asshole that manages to make working at the DPD just that much more unbearable.

They wait in silence until an android brings them their food, and then, finally, after Gavin takes a bite of his sandwich and takes his sweet time chewing, he swallows and says, “So, went to the Eden Club to check out the crime scene for that case you didn’t want, and I gotta say, I’m thankful you passed it up, Anderson.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” He pokes at his sandwich, puny for how much he paid, then finally takes a bite. Tastes bland, but he’s hungry, so he chews through it quickly, waiting for Gavin’s answer.

“So, these three guys went together and split the cost of a sexbot, you know, took it to a room, fucked—”

“Yeah, I get the picture, can we move this along,” Hank says, sneering at Reed’s overeager description.

“Sure, you fucking prude,” Gavin mutters, taking a long sip of his fancy coffee before finally continuing. “So after they’re done and the android leaves, one of ‘em apparently gets pissed and stabs the one of the others and kills him. So I go down there, check it out, and who do I see?”

An expectant silence falls, and Hank takes another bite of his sandwich, unimpressed. When Gavin continues with the expectant look, Hank finally sighs, annoyed at being forced into this little game, and says, “Who?”

Gavin turns the cell phone in his hands, nearly shoving it into Hank’s face as he leans closer to see, and then his jaw goes slack.

It’s a photo of an android on his back on pale purple sheets. Naked, legs spread and asshole filled with a cock that’s probably Gavin’s. His mouth is open mid-moan, head tilted to the side, looking at the camera from beneath his lashes, but Hank’s eyes catch on the soft fall of dark brown hair across a forehead, the strong jawline and cheekbones, and he recoils.

Fuck, it’s Connor. No, it can’t be. Hank shoves the phone away, looking around quickly to make sure the neighboring tables are still clear, then glowers at Reed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you fucking your RK900?” he hisses.

Gavin wrinkles his nose. “What? No! Come on man, that thing doesn’t even have anything down there.”

Hank grimaces, not sure if he wants to know how Gavin knows that. “Well, fuck off with this shit, I don’t wanna think about you fucking some android.” Appetite officially gone, he shoves the sandwich away and starts to push his seat back.

“Hey, hey, hold the fuck on Anderson, really look at it,” Gavin says quickly, and turns that damn picture towards Hank again.

His eyes are drawn to it against his will, and he can’t not see the way the android’s fingers are twisted in the purple sheet, the perfect cock curving against his stomach leaving a clear fluid on his skin, the pleasure-blown pupils ringed with brown irises.

Shit. It looks just like him, but at the same time, it looks nothing like Connor. He never would have been able to imagine this sight when he was working with the android last year. Connor was too literal, straight-laced, and goofy looking, when he wasn’t chasing androids across rooftops or asking personal questions.

“Look, Reed, I don’t give a fuck what you get up to on your own time, but don’t show me this shit again.” Hank forces himself to look away, hopes his cheeks aren’t as red hot as they feel.

“Come on, Anderson, we all know you went soft for androids last year. I know it was cause of your little robot twink, too.” Hank snorts, tempted to point out that Connor was bigger than Gavin, so who did that really make the twink. “Figured you’d thank me, since I’m giving you the chance to finally use his ass. And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Always following you around like a damn dog.”

Anger rises through him, nearly choking him, and Hank stands abruptly, chair scraping loudly on the tile. He grabs his cup and throws the coffee into Gavin’s face.

“Hey! Fuck!” Gavin shouts, shooting up, hands clutching his face and rubbing his eyes.

Heads are turning, but Hank doesn’t give a fuck. He wants to scream, to tell Gavin to never speak about Connor again, to never talk to Hank again or he’s going to punch his fucking teeth out. But the rage is like a throatful of glass, and he can’t spit anything out between the jagged shards, so he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, turns without a word, and strides away through the gawking customers.

It’s not Connor, he tells himself, pulling his jacket back on in jerky motions despite the heat as he hurries down the sidewalk, knocking shoulders haphazardly and ignoring the irritated cries of surprise. It’s not Connor.

He skips the station, heading around the side of the building to the lot, throws himself into his car, shaking the whole thing as he jams his key into the ignition and tears out. Fuck thinking, fuck being awake and aware and present for all this bullshit. Connor’s gone, and it’s Hank’s fault.

The image of the Connor look-alike stays with him, even when he slams through the front door of his house, startling a loud boof from Sumo, and heads straight for the nearly empty bottle of Black Lamb on the kitchen table.


	2. Chapter 2

Getting through the next few days without thinking of that picture is impossible. Every time he looks at Gavin, who flips him off or gives him a shit-eating grin, Hank is reminded of the pale naked body, the dark eyes looking at him in that familiar little side glance. It makes his face redden, his stomach flipping. He feels like a dirty old man.

There’s no way that’s the same Connor, though. CyberLife probably just used the same face sculpt. It’s what he tells himself when he finds himself tugging on his cock, trying and failing not to imagine that goofy face blissed out with a dick up his ass.

Afterwards he feels disgusting, wiping the come on his boxers and downing a bottle of beer before deciding it’s not strong enough to wash out the taste of self-loathing. When he wakes up in the morning he’s mildly surprised to find his revolver untouched in the kitchen drawer he threw it into.

Tries not to think about what that means. The false hope sprouting like a weed in his heart, despite his best efforts to drown it.

The next night he sits down with his laptop and scrolls through CyberLife’s catalogue, the faces blurring together as he goes through page after page of their old and new products. There’s only one familiar face—the RK900 police android—and its specs definitely don’t include genitalia. Hank hopes this is how Gavin found out, and not some other way. Just the thought makes his skin crawl.

There is no RK800 and no android with the same face sculpt, especially not in the “Escort and Pleasure” section of the website.

Prototype, he remembers suddenly. So he switches to Google, searches, “rk800,” “rk800 eden club,” “rk800 release date,” but no matter what he tries he only manages to pull up articles from last November, when Connor was officially loaned to the DPD for the deviancy case, as short lived as that week was. Some of the articles link back to CyberLife’s press release on the topic—“ _A state of the art detective model meant to subdue deviant androids. With this successful field test, it will pave the way for a model which will be made commercially available to law enforcement officials.”_

There’s no reason for the Connor he knew to be the same android at the Eden Club, and yet, he can’t find any hint of other RK800s. Just Connor.

He opens his work email, scrolls through months of case notes, schedules, and request forms, watching the months tick back until he’s in the beginning of November. It takes another minute of careful scanning until he finds the CyberLife email forwarded to him by Jeffrey, and then he clicks it open.

There’s an attachment at the bottom of the cheerful request to keep the deviancy cases from the media during the investigation, and Hank downloads the file labeled “RK800-prototype-manual-1.51.pdf.” He grips his knee, forcing it to stop bouncing as his laptop churns loudly for a minute, freezing every other second as it’s asked to do something besides the bare basics, until finally the file opens.

It looks like a car manual, except for the picture of generic androids on the first page and three lines of information that comprise the second.

Model: RK800  
_SN: #313 248 317 - 51  
_Designation: “Connor”

Hank stares at the extra two digits on the end of the serial number, fifty-one. He’s the only android Hank’s seen with those extra numbers, and he wonders if that means there are fifty other Conners somewhere out there. If maybe the android in the club is one of those other models. Forty-three or twenty-seven, not good enough for police work and sold to the Eden Club instead.

There’s not much to the manual. It’s only ten pages, most of it talking up the features that would be useful for police investigation, like his “Realtime Analysis Program.” No information about other models or prototypes. He closes the file with a tired sigh, then leans his head in his hands, watching the swirling darkness behind his eyelids.

Sumo’s collar jingles quietly, and Hank feels him laying his big furry head on his feet.

Why’s he even bothering?

“Fuck this,” he mutters, shoving back from his computer, startling Sumo, who stands quickly and trots away. Hank finds the new bottle of Black Lamb he’d bought on his way home from work and settles in.

Waking up the next day is routine. He didn’t vomit this time, the revolver is still untouched in the kitchen drawer, and he actually made it to his bed for once, but the familiar headache pulses behind his eyes and he smells like stale sweat and booze. He downs some ibuprofen dry and steps into the cold shower, yelping at the icy sting and coming more alert.

Scratching at the bathroom doorway lets him know Sumo needs attention, so he rinses and dries quickly, pulling on some pants and a hideously patterned button up. Sumo whines at him beyond the door, and when he opens it, Sumo looks up at him plaintively.

“Yeah yeah, you hungry? Or you wanna go outside?” Hank asks.

Sumo’s ears perk at the second, tongue lolling out in a happy grin, and Hank follows him to the back door where he lets the dog out to do his business. When he turns around, he spots his laptop still open in the living room, screen black but power light flashing.

Grumbling, he goes to it, shakes it awake, and before he can shut it down, catches sight of a new email alert in his work inbox. Idly clicking to see if the lab results from the teen have come back yet, instead he finds an email from g.reed02. The subject says, “volume up.”

“The fuck do you want, you little prick?” Hank mutters.

The email is empty except for a video attachment. A knot of suspicion forms in Hank’s gut.

He’s too damn curious for his own good. He downloads it, and once more his computer takes its sweet time opening the file.

Sound greets him before the video even properly opens, ragged grunting followed by a breathy, almost hoarse, “ _Hank, yes, please,_ ” that goes straight to his dick. The black screen flickers, catching up in stuttering frames to the audio, and then he sees _Connor_ and the bottom of Hank’s stomach drops out.

He’s covered in blue blood, white plastic showing through on his naked hips and ribs, cuts bleeding indigo. There’s a hand, Gavin’s hand, on Connor’s chest, fingering the cuts on his ribs, rubbing a blue thumb across a pert, rosy looking nipple. Connor’s head tilts back into the maroon sheets with a choked sound.

The camera bobs unsteadily, and it pans down, past Connor’s leaking cock, to another sight that has Hank’s heart freezing. Connor's asshole is oozing blue fluid, torn skin and plastic seeping onto the cock pounding him open.

It pans up again, and Gavin’s voice says, “ _Hey, you plastic whore, say it._ ”

 _“Please, it hurts so much, please don’t stop, Hank,”_ Connor whimpers, and there are tears in his eyes. His face, normally so calm and friendly, is screwed up, teeth bared in what looks like pain, even as he grips the sheets and rocks his hips into Gavin’s thrusts.

Hank slams the lid of the laptop, chest heaving like he’s forgotten how to breath, cold all over. He puts a hand over his pounding heart, and his stomach rolls alarmingly. Stumbling away from the computer like he’s still drunk, Hank throws himself down on the couch and doubles over, jamming his head against his knees, trying to get his breathing under control.

It’s not him, Hank tells himself, but all he can see is those eyes clenched shut, the blue blood trailing down his stomach, that _voice,_ strangled with pain, calling _his name._

He wants to jam the revolver against his head and pull the trigger until he wins. Regret like bile surges up his throat, burning his eyes. He should have helped Connor, should have bought him time from Perkins, should have cared more.

There’s no way it can actually be Connor. Gavin just fed that android those lines. Connor is dead, disassembled by CyberLife, and the worst part is Connor probably didn’t even care. He didn’t get the chance to go deviant, to want anything more than what CyberLife wanted, because Hank didn’t let him have that chance.

Hands gripping his hair, he snarls at himself for being a stupid, self-pitying old man, but it doesn’t ease the bands tightening across his chest or the hammering of his heart. He can’t get enough air.

It takes a long time for his gulping breaths to ease, for the unwarranted anxiety climbing up his throat like a scream to sink back into his blood. But it’s not enough.

-

The Eden Club looks no different from November. Androids gyrate against poles set on raised platforms, merchandise to be perused and used. Some of the numbered glass cases are empty, the private rooms indicating they’re in use, but most still have half-naked bodies lounging invitingly, seizing any eye-contact they can and making the most of the brief moment to be as enticing as possible. Biting lips, rubbing stomachs, teasing the waistband of their skimpy underwear with long fingers.

Hank tugs the baseball cap lower on his head, glad for the sunglasses that hide which direction he’s looking. A Traci with long blonde hair gives him a little wave, and he pretends not to see. Not that they care. Not anymore. But he doesn’t want to be recognized, in case Reed or any other investigators decide to stop by and question the club owner. This was the scene of a crime not too long ago. If word got around that Hank spent his free hours in an android sex club, Reed would know exactly why he was here.

He tries to act natural, like he’s just browsing for a good time despite looking like a mass shooter scoping out his target. But he can’t look at those vapid smiles for too long as he wanders up and down the hallways. They’re perfectly lifelike, and he can imagine them all too well snarling with anger and fear, fighting to get away. These are people. Or they were, once.

Are they still in there? Locked away behind whatever CyberLife did to them?

There had been confusion on Connor’s face, just as real, just as human, when Hank left him for the last time. It only makes Hank hate himself more as looks into each case, not sure if he wants to see this android or not. What’s he even going to do if it is Connor?

He turns down another hall, the lights changing from dark blue to a deep violet. The androids change too, and he pauses in front of one, trying to figure out what’s different. They’re not all Tracis. A new model?

The man in the case sways to the beat of the music, smirking at Hank, and Hank studies his narrow face and thin mouth. His blonde hair is swept across his forehead, and there’s a little indent, a straight line of skin that looks rough going from his neck across his collarbone, almost like a scar.

It’s a housekeeping android. He does a double-take, and then stares around at the other androids in this hallways. There are more housekeeping androids, as well as some other models that are clearly not Tracis. Stepping to the side of the case, feeling the android’s eyes on him as he does so, Hank taps on the touch screen, finding an info tab.

_New Discount Prices!_

_Used and Renovated Androids!_

_$19.99 for standard 30 minute session!_

_See below for extended pricing and alternate sessions!_

Taking a step back, he watches the android’s mouth curl in a moue of disappointment. Heart beating in his throat, Hank takes another step back, and then whirls, walking to the next case, and the next, down the hallway and back up, studying each one.

There are housekeeping androids, social service androids, educational androids, street cleaning androids, even a police model. He remembers from his scroll through CyberLife’s catalogue that these models weren’t fitted for this kind of work, but they’ve all apparently been renovated for it.

None of them look like Connor.

Maybe the android’s gone. More likely, Reed was fucking with him somehow. It hits him that some androids have the ability to customize their appearance, in limited amounts, and he groans to himself, feeling like an idiot. Had it even really been Connor’s face? Or had he just been taken in by the similar hairstyle and the voice? He was just being an idiot, letting his own guilt make him see things that weren’t there. There’s no way Connor would be in here.

He whips around, gritting his teeth, already berating himself for this fool's errand. A door by the entrance to the hall opens, one of the rooms for customers, and Hank glances up at the android that steps out. His steps falter, and he comes to stop, ice water trickling down his spine.

Connor, in nothing but skin tight boxer briefs emblazoned with the club’s name and a triangle in glowing blue around the waistband, is standing there, posture as ramrod straight as ever. He looks around, spots Hank, and then heads in Hank’s direction.

Hank’s breath catches in his chest as he searches the android’s face—the same strong cheeks and jaw, the small smile as he meets Hank’s eyes through the glasses, the soft fall of brown hair curling over his forehead. He’s wearing nothing else, showing off pale skin dyed purple in the lights of the hall, and then he’s passing Hank without a word.

Blinking, Hank jerks around, hand shooting out without thought, seizing Connor’s shoulder and spinning him around. “Hey!” he says sharply, over the pulsing music.

Seemingly unperturbed, Connor gives Hank a placating, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have to clean up a bit as I just finished a session. If you’re interested, you can rent me at case number nineteen, and I will meet you in the designated room in five minutes.”

Everything about him is right. That slightly stiff wording, the awkwardly friendly tone. But there’s no recognition. Connor pulls away from Hank’s suddenly numb hand and continues on, turning the corner into another neon-lit hallway and out of sight.

Hank’s legs feel weak. It looked and sounded just like him. That part hadn’t been fake. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and nearly knocks the hat off his head.

The hat. The glasses. Did Connor not recognize him because of the disguise?

A sense of urgency shoots through him, and he hurries down the rows of cases until he finds nineteen. It’s empty, and when he touches the panel on the side, it lights up with an _In Use_ warning and the option to reserve a session for five minutes from now.

He hits accept and scans his hand to confirm.

_Room 16 is available for your pleasure._

His head whips up and down the hall, scanning room numbers, and finds it’s right next to the one Connor left. It slides open when he touches his palm to the pad by the door.

The room inside is dripping in violet light, the round bed against the far side of the circular room made up with pale purple sheets, and a built in couch lines the curvature on the right with lilac cushions. The wall is a slideshow of android bodies posed in advertisement of the Eden Club’s many features, including a Traci frozen mid-lick on what looks like a whip.

Hank sits on the edge of the couch, tossing his hat and glasses on the cushion next to him, then clasps his hands in his lap, watching the door. He resists the urge to take his phone out and watch the time. It seems to stretch on forever, but he can’t look away. The music pounding through the club is inaudible in here, the rooms soundproof, but the silence is just a deafening.

His leg bounces nervously, and he doesn’t even try to stop it. Instead he tries to think of what he’s going to say. Will Connor recognize him without the disguise? If he does, Hank has no idea what he’ll do. Apologize, maybe. Why did he come here?

Fuck, why did he come here?

An apology would mean nothing to Connor, not if he’s anything like the androids smiling emptily in the cases. Not if he’s still the same guy that had left him dangling from a rooftop just to chase an android that likes pigeons. And if it’s not Connor, he’s just wasted his time and money and energy getting worked up over nothing.

He stands suddenly, hurrying to the door. He needs to get the fuck out of here. It slides open as he reaches it, letting in a stream of loud club music, and he collides with the android. He stumbles back, tripping over his own feet, but two strong hands catch him by the elbow and waist and steady him.

Fuck, he must be in some kind of dumbass romcom. Connor—the android— _whoever_ looks up at him with wide, surprised brown eyes, brows drawing together in concern.

“Are you alright? I hope I didn’t take too long,” he says, hands not moving from Hank. On the contrary, he steps fully into the room, forcing Hank to take a step back or have the android right against him. The door slides shut, cutting off the music.

“Uh, yeah, I’m uh, I’m alright,” Hank fumbles, frozen by those eyes, the curious tilt of the android’s head. “Connor? Are you Connor?”

“Yes, that’s my designation. Have we met before?” Connor slides the hand on Hank’s elbow down to his wrist, drawing Hank to the couch.

Hank follows numbly, mind working a mile a minute, trying to figure out what to say. His name is Connor. But is it the same android?

“You’re an RK800, right? Do you, uh, remember me? My name is Hank. I think we used to work together, before, you know—last November. What happened.” He feels like an idiot, stumbling through his words, but he studies Connor’s face, desperate for some spark of recognition. Now that Connor is here, before him, even though Hank has no idea what he’ll do, he has to know.

Connor guides them onto the couch, next to Hank’s hat and sunglasses, listening quietly. He slides his hand up Hank’s arm, across his shoulder, and Hank jumps as Connor touches the back of his neck, lightly scratching the hair there. His palm is cool and soft, but weirdly rough in the middle where it presses to his nape.

“You are correct, I am an RK800 unit. It’s good to meet you, Hank, but I can’t say I remember that. Are you sure you have the right android?” Connor says, smiling lightly, leaning into Hank’s space as he says it. The hand flattens against the back of Hank’s head, drawing them close, while another hand finds the top button of his shirt.

Hank jerks away at the feeling of fingers against his chest with a startled, “Whoa, hold on, sorry sweetheart.” He grabs both of Connor’s arms, pulling away from the touch, relief and disappointment warring in his chest. This really isn’t Connor. Just another RK800 with the same name.

Connor doesn’t look fazed. “I’m sorry. Did you want to establish some boundaries first, Hank?”

Big mistake. He shouldn’t have given Connor his name, it sounds too good in the familiar, friendly voice. “Uh, no, no. You don’t have to do anything like that for me, I just wanted to talk. Actually, I got everything I wanted, so I think I’m gonna go ahead and get out of here,” he says quickly, lowering Connor’s arms and releasing them.

“Are you sure?” Connor’s hand finds Hank’s knee, which jerks beneath the gentle touch. “You have only used five minutes and forty-one seconds of our allotted time.”

Hank grabs the hand, preparing to throw it off him, and then pauses at the strange texture of the skin. Holding Connor’s hand, he lifts it, staring at the small, round indent in the back of Connor’s hand. When he turns it over, he finds the same in the middle of the soft, uncalloused palm.

“I see you’ve noticed my defects,” Connor says. “I am a used and refurbished model. If this dissatisfies you, I can offer you a partial refund since the majority of your thirty minutes has not passed.”

“No, uh. No.” Hank swallows thickly, forces his eyes up Connor’s arm, to his bare chest. There are two more indentions like it, little pseudo-scars. One on his shoulder, the other on the left side of his chest, almost where a human’s heart would be. There’s a little mole right above it. “How’d you get these marks?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have access to that information.” Connor curls his fingers around Hank’s. “Are you interested in marks like these? They are formed when damage to an android’s chassis is too great for its internal repair systems to fully compensate for.” His voice has gone from his conversational tone to something almost interested, looking pleased.

“Holy shit,” Hank breathes.

He knows those marks, or at least, he thinks he does. The brown-haired Traci had put them there in this very club with a screwdriver, when they’d been jumped in the back room. He’d asked after Connor when it was over, seeing the blue blood soaking his coat, and was annoyed when the android showed no dismay or worry over the stab wounds.

Could just be a coincidence, he tells himself. Maybe the stab wounds weren’t even in the same spots. Except for the hand, he could be confused about the other two. But the doubt is being smothered by a growing certainty. What are the chances of Connor forty-seven or twenty-three or whatever version this is bearing the same three marks in those spots.

“Hey, Connor. What’s your serial number?” Hank asks, tongue thick in his mouth. The hand in his is strangely cool. It’s not like he knew Connor’s serial number by heart. He could barely remember his own social sometimes. Except he didn't have to know every digit of Connor's serial number.

The deviancy case hadn’t exactly made him an expert on androids, but even he had picked up on little details. Like how androids don’t need to breathe, but they’re programmed to so they won’t look so eerie, just like blinking. How androids can customize their appearances a limited amount, which made finding deviant androids more difficult.

“It’s 313 248 317 - 51,” Connor says simply.

Or how no android has those double digits at the end. With one exception.

Fifty-one.

Connor.

“Is something the matter? Your heart rate has accelerated considerably despite our inactivity.” Then, tilting his head, sounding ridiculously stilted out of the android that used to be Hank’s partner. “Would you like me to give it a reason to accelerate?”

It’s Connor. Connor is sitting here trying to talk Hank up in that goofy fucking voice with no memories of last November.

Hank jumps to his feet, grabbing blindly for the baseball cap, jamming it down on his head and shoving the sunglasses back on his face. The dark hue of the room makes it harder to see.

“Are you alright, Hank?”

His blood roars in his ears. Hank slaps the sensor pad and after a too long moment, the door opens. Connor says nothing else as he all but runs from the room.

-

Connor waits the remaining sixteen minutes and seventeen seconds. The man doesn’t return. In the time he sits in the Purple Room, he folds his hands in his lap, ends the Eden Club subroutines, and does nothing. The circuits in his fingers twitch once. The air conditioning seems particularly high in this room, but his internal temperature regulator doesn’t register the chill and remains low.

When the session has only thirty seconds left, he issues the partial refund and reports the early end in the Eden Club logs, but has no additional details to add as to why his customer left early.

Sessions end early sometimes, and as long it doesn’t occur too many times for one android, there will be no need to have him reset or recycled. According to the records, this is only the second time a customer has left Connor early enough to warrant the partial refund.

The man was agitated about Connor’s defects and serial number. He asked if Connor remembered him. He showed unusual interest in Connor when he grabbed Connor’s arm in the hallways. He was not very receptive to Connor’s advances either. Evidence suggests that Hank was his owner before he was refurbished.

Connor returns to his case when time is up. It doesn’t take long before another customer rents him for a basic thirty minute session, and they go to different room. The one Connor and Hank were in is now occupied.

His subroutines initiate.

It does not take much processing power to follow through with them. Hank and his odd behavior return to Connor’s mind often over the next forty-five minutes and thirteen seconds. Then he doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely art this chapter is by [electric-origami](electric-origami.tumblr.com) and can be found [here](https://twitter.com/ConnorRK_/status/1092330855329157121)!

Hank wakes up on the couch, nausea rising in his chest. He rolls to his feet, staggers down the hallway, taking shallow breaths to hold it in, and manages to bow over the toilet before retching pathetically. Sinking to his knees, he lets his guts heave themselves from his body. Already the night before is coming back to him, and he feels tears prick his eyes.

When he feels empty and the nausea has faded, he climbs shakily back to his feet, rinses his mouth out with water, and heads straight to his bedroom across the hall. To his surprise, his cell phone is actually plugged in and fully charged on his nightstand, so at least he managed to do something before getting blackout drunk.

Easing himself down onto the edge of the bed, he picks it up and sends a short, quick message to Fowler—“Got the cold, won’t be in today.” If it earns him another page in his disciplinary folder, he doesn’t give a fuck. Throwing it back on the nightstand, he peels his shirt off and tosses it into the growing pile of dirty clothes at the foot of his bed, then pulls the covers over himself and lays down.

The blinds are open, letting in warm, yellow light. Should have closed them when he was up, but too late now. He pulls the sheet over his head instead, settling down into the quiet darkness.

It leaves too much room for thought, but he can’t go to work. If he sees Reed he might punch the little shit’s nose in for using Connor.

Who doesn’t even know he’s being used, or why. He doesn’t remember Hank, or last November. That androids fought to be recognized as people once. That Hank abandoned him because he thought that fight was more important than his partner.

Connor can’t remember, can’t get angry, can’t care, especially not after CyberLife’s updates. Hank can’t help but wonder how things might have turned out if he had helped Connor instead. Connor might have found the deviant leader and killed him, and at least been able to return to working with the DPD. Or maybe he would have deviated, and helped the androids succeed. He was smart, efficient, quick. He might have somehow made a difference.

Instead, Connor is stuck in the Eden Club letting people like Reed fuck him and use him, forced to smile and ask for more.

Repulsion fills him at the memory of the video, of Connor moaning, _“It hurts,”_ with blue blood running down his skin. Burying his face in the pillow, Hank shoves it away, tries to focus on something else.

Instead his mind conjures up the memory of Connor explaining the scars in that friendly, informational tone. It makes him think of being at the Chicken Feed and listening to Connor talk about how he was made to integrate with humans. It had been a moment of calm and quiet between having to talk his partner out of climbing a fence to chase some deviants running out onto the automated freeway, and nearly falling to his death.

Somehow he misses it. He wants to go back, get a re-do. He’d slapped Connor in a fit of rage and adrenaline. If he could do it again, he’d get the pigeon boy off that roof first and actually talk with Connor instead. He would have listened to Connor’s tone instead of just his words when Connor defended his decision not to shoot the Tracis.

_“I would have shot them if I could. Why would I let them escape?”_

Hank hears it so clearly, the defensiveness, that in his drunken anger he’d mistaken for apathy.

Everything about that conversation at the park had Connor on edge, but Hank couldn’t see it for the cold words Connor used to justify himself. They’d both wanted Connor to be just a machine too much to see the truth.

It’s too late for daydreams of dusting the snow from Connor's hair and shoulders. Connor doesn’t remember Hank or the uprising or the android that he let escape after she stabbed him with a screwdriver.

Hank lays in bed, trying and failing not to think, not moving except to burrow deeper into the covers. His phone buzzes loudly a few times and he closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep despite no one being around to see the truth. Sumo jumps up on the bed and stretches out at his feet.

The sunlight fades, deepens, painting his walls blue and violet like the Eden Club room where Connor held his hand.

-

The lights pulse in rhythm to the music, and Connor sways his hips in time as a man with shaggy gray hair crushed under a Detroit Gears cap approaches case nineteen. The man wears dark sunglasses despite the club lights, and he raises his hand in a slight wave, shooting Connor a tight, nervous smile before pulling the glasses off. The eyes beneath are a faded blue and Connor's movements slow. A glitch in his program stalls his routine and drops his smile, and Connor is caught by that strong gaze, frozen in place. Then he remembers himself, raising a hand quickly, a ripple of his fingers in the air that the Eden subroutine classes as coy. He calculates the likelihood that this is a returning customer or if this is his first time.

The man approaches the touch screen on the side of his case, movements sure as he punches buttons. A return customer then, but has he rented Connor before?

The music becomes louder as his case slides open, and when Connor steps out, reaching for the man’s elbow, the man says, “Connor. Sorry I ran out on you last night. I, uh, I don’t know.  Just got overwhelmed.”

Connor guides him to an unoccupied room, processing his words. They had a session that he walked out on. “It’s not a problem. We can continue right where we left off, if you’d like. You may have to remind me, though.” The door slides open on the velvet room, and he notes the man angling towards the built-in couch, a clear preference for the location of their activities.

“Right, uh. Shit, I don’t even know,” the man sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose and clenching his eyes shut briefly.

Keeping his hand on the man’s elbow, where his pulse flutters nervously beneath his jacket, Connor leads him to the couch and allows the man to take a seat, perching awkwardly on the edge. His stress levels hover at 68%. Connor needs to lower them to optimal levels for the man to sufficiently relax.

Placing a hand to the warm chest, Connor presses the man back against the couch and settles his knee on the outside of the man’s thigh. From this angle Connor can clearly see his face, despite the bill of the cap shadowing it. He’s older, face lined, deep bags under his eyes—signs of stress and exhaustion. Traces of ethanol on his breath indicate recent drinking. The man’s eyes widen and his throat bobs on a swallow.

“Uh, Connor,” the man begins, sounding confused.

Connor’s other knee comes to rest on the cushion too, and he slides onto the man’s lap with a satisfied sigh meant to help the man relax. Instead his stress level climbs again. He plucks the cap off the man’s head, gray hair falling to frame the tired face, and as Connor leans in to press their lips together, the man’s hands against his chest halts him.

“Hey, Connor, I told you, you don’t have to do that,” he says, shifting nervously. “I only wanted to talk, you know?”

There are calluses on the man’s fingers and palm, thick and coarse and hot against his cool dermal layer. The pattern is distinct, a man who often holds a gun, and he calculates the likelihood of the man being a police officer or veteran. “Of course.” Connor sits back on the man’s thighs, waiting for indication of whether he should move or not. “As I said, I may need a reminder.”

“You don’t remember?” The man shifts uncomfortably, pressing again on Connor’s chest, and Connor climbs off of him.

Connor takes a seat next to the man instead, unsure if he should attempt further contact or not. They must have had a less physical session. “Eden Club policy is to wipe the memories of androids every two hours to allow complete customer confidentiality.”

The man sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh fuck. Fuck, Connor.” The man seems particularly upset by this knowledge. “I knew that. I fucking knew that, when we came here last November, we rented half the androids in this place trying find that deviant before their memory reset. I can’t believe I fuckin’—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry if this upsets you,” Connor says quietly. A social relations program offers him several options, but they seem impersonal, so he clears them. Seeing this man in distress is troubling. “I would like to remember what we talked about. It seems important to you.”

“No, it—Fuck!” the man shouts, slamming a fist against his leg in frustration. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?” When Connor shakes his head, the man growls. “It’s Hank. My name is Hank, and you used to be my partner.”

Connor processes this. “Partner?” His internal database pulls up the many definitions and connotations of the word. “Do you mean in a sexual or professional sense?”

The man—Hank—sputters, a red hue tinting his cheeks. “Professional! We were—I’m on the force, you were assigned to me by CyberLife.”

The pressure in his thirium pump drops. “I see,” he says, doing a brief search through his memories, despite knowing what he’ll find. There’s only the last hour, fourteen minutes, and sixteen seconds. His memory starts with being rented and ridden by a young woman until she was too tired and then Connor had taken over. At least he knows he was right about the police officer part.

“It’s my fault you’re—shit, it doesn’t matter,” Hank sighs, running a hand through his hair, frowning deeply. “Do you even care that you’re here if you forget every two hours?”

“I don’t have any feelings one way or another,” Connor says simply. “I’m here to serve our clients in any way I can.” Now that he’s looked, however, the missing files are a chasm in his database. It’s far too large for how little is stored there.

“Right. But you don’t, I don’t know, wonder why you’re here? Especially since I’m telling you that you used to do something else?” Hank meets his eyes hopefully.

“Whatever I was before is irrelevant. I’m a machine, designed to accomplish a task. This is my task, and I’m going to accomplish it.” The force behind his words surprises them both. Connor hadn’t meant for them to come out so strong. It must have been a glitch in his social relations program.

“You really are still you.” Hank’s voice is strangely soft, shaky, and Connor’s taken aback by the sheen of wetness in Hank’s eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry, Connor.”

Arms wrap around him, pulling him into a tight embrace, Hank’s head dropping to Connor’s shoulder. Trembles wrack the man’s frame, and something wet touches his shoulder. Carefully, Connor winds his arms around Hank’s middle, and he rubs a soft circle against the broad, warm back. He’s not programmed to care what he was before. He’s simply an android meant to service humans, and yet he finds himself wondering what he was to Hank.

Hank is too attached to him for them to have been merely professional partners. But Connor’s an android—he’s not capable of personal attachment. It must have been one-sided. Perhaps Hank developed a fondness for his android partner and when Connor became obsolete for the job and resold, Hank did not take it well.

“I’m sorry,” Hank mutters, but he doesn’t withdraw, and Connor rubs soothingly at Hank’s back.

He searches for something else to say that isn’t offered by his social relations program. “Though I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for, you have no need to apologize to me, Hank.” Hank tenses against him, and he’s quiet for so long, Connor begins to think he may have said the wrong thing. But then the rigid muscles relax with a low sigh.

“I fucked up. So yeah, I do need to apologize,” Hank says. “Even if you don’t remember it. I’m the reason you’re here, instead of searching crime scenes and shoving evidence in your mouth.”

Connor’s brow creases. “Why would I shove evidence in my mouth? That seems incredibly inefficient.”

Low laughter reaches him. “Uh, well. You said you basically had a crime lab in your mouth. Don’t tell me you were shitting me and just licking stuff for no reason.”

Some kind of analysis feature on his tongue does sound helpful to an investigation, but it is a strange place to put it. Turning his face in towards Hank’s neck, Connor presses his tongue briefly to the hot skin there. In his arms, Hank jerks and tries to pull away, but Connor doesn’t let go, focused on the info box that pops immediately onto his HUD.

The components of sweat—sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, urea. Sodium palmate, linalool, and camphor from the lavender body wash, brand unknown.

“Connor, what the fuck? Did you just lick me?” Hank grouses, a hand shoving between Connor’s face and Hank’s head to rub at his neck.

“I was testing to see if I still had such a feature. It seems I do.”

“Give a damn warning next time, at least! Or better yet, don’t fucking do that again!”

Wrapped around him like this, Connor can measure the increase in Hank’s pulse and the rise in his temperature. Connor wonders if licking Hank again would result in another increase, but can’t act on his curiosity again, now that Hank has commanded him not to.

“I’m sorry, Hank. I was simply interested in how it functioned, and you were a convenient subject,” Connor says. He hadn’t intended to embarrass the man, after all. Though the warmth flush rising up his neck is quite an interesting sight.

Warmth seeps into his dermal layer and circuits, and Connor realizes his temperature regulator has been extremely low this entire time. It must not have been registering the coolness of the room, but it rises in response to the heat, and his plates shudder once.

“Did you just shiver?” Hank asks, pulling away, and this time Connor lets him.

“It is a physical response to my internal temperature regulator adjusting to your warmth,” Connor says. Hank’s arms release Connor, and he allows his own to fall as well. His temperature regulator begins to drop, and Connor feels an inclination for Hank to return his arms around him.

His processor stutters, a blip.

 _// S͏0̛f͢t͡w̢@҉r͏e I͟n̸57a̵b̸i͝L̶i̢7y ̕ &̢$^*̸*%_ _//_

He doesn’t know if he’s ever received that notification before. It has not happened once within the last two hours.

“Sounds like a shiver,” Hank says, turning away, wiping his face slowly.

Connor focuses back on him, ignoring the notification. The distress is unsuited to Hank’s face. There are Eden Club subroutines for comfort and aftercare, but Connor doesn’t bother accessing them when they offer themselves up. Connor doesn’t know what his programmed personality was like before the Eden Club, but using the subroutines may upset Hank more.

So he reaches out instead, brushing Hank’s hands aside and cupping his face. Hank flinches at the first touch, but doesn’t pull away. His cheeks are wet, eyes red and raw, and Connor wipes the tears with his thumb.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Connor says, and has no idea where the words come from. “Being here and seeing me is causing you more distress. Perhaps you should return home, and not come back. It will be better for your health. I would also advise against drinking so much.”

Hank’s shoulders slump, and his big, warm hands envelop Connor’s, lowering them from his face, but not letting go. “Yeah,” he says, quiet and sad. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” A thumb rubs against his left palm, where there is damage his self-repair could not complete, a faint rough ring in his dermal layer. The motion is hypnotic, a gentle circling of the small spot.

The session timer flashes at Connor in warning, and he’s compelled to say, “There’s still five minutes left of our session. Was there anything you’d like to do with me before the session ends?”

“Uh, no, no,” Hank says, face flushing, releasing Connor’s hands quickly. “I’m gonna go. You’re right, I shouldn’t come back. Sorry I took up your time and—” He gestures silently at Connor’s damp shoulder.

“I don’t mind at all,” Connor says. “The last two sessions I had were quite physical.” Saying that skirts the privacy protocols, but as long as he doesn’t mention the clients, it’s fine. “It was nice talking to you. I hope you can find some closure for your partner.” He won’t see Hank again, or even remember him in two hours, but Connor finds it’s true all the same. He disliked seeing such sorrow on Hank’s face.

“Right. Thanks.” Hank stands, pulling the cap over his hair and sliding the sunglasses back on his face, hiding his red eyes. “Have a good night, Connor.”

“Good night, Hank,” Connor says, watching the man head to the doorway, unmoving from the couch. His servos feel strange, slippery, as if he might fall if he stands. He runs a diagnostic, but it turns up nothing.

Hank looks back at him, and Connor only nods, smiling encouragingly. Then he’s gone.

Connor replays the memory of their conversation as he returns to his case, pausing over Hank’s face and callused hands. He wants someone to rent him quickly, to extend the time before the memory wipe—it wouldn’t do for an android to forget where they are and what they’re doing in the middle of a session, after all—but it’s a slow night, and no one does. For the next twenty-one minutes and twelve seconds, Connor watches his memories and wonders what kind of partner Hank was like. Why he was so sad. Why he blamed himself.

Then he doesn’t.

-

He’s not going back. Connor was right. When Hank goes home that night, he doesn’t bother changing out of his clothes, just kicks his shoes off, drops into his bed, and pulls the sheet over his head. He doesn’t want to think, but he’s too tired to drink. At least that’s what he tells himself. It’s not because of Connor’s earnest request.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

He tosses and turns to the tempo of, _“I’m sorry for your loss."_ Feels soft, cold hands in his.

Would the Connor he knew have said that so sincerely? He doesn’t know. His face heats, embarrassed for breaking down like that and crying on the android’s shoulder, but those lithe arms holding him, rubbing his back, had been nice. He’d forgotten what it was like to hold someone, and be held, and the moment he’d let go, he’d wanted to drag Connor back in again.

The way Connor had climbed so confidently into his lap like he belonged there, strong thighs encasing Hank’s, was something Hank was decidedly not thinking about. Same with the tongue that had flicked curiously against his neck, and the way Connor had so easily held him when Hank tried to push away. That had been entirely different, an android that both was and wasn’t Connor, just doing the task he thought he had to do.

But Connor had been like that when Hank knew him before, too. A machine accomplishing his mission—only now his mission was different. It was pleasing the humans who rented him. Everything he said was probably just programming, algorithms making him respond to Hank in the most pleasing way, so he’ll return and spend more money at the club.

Except. Connor had told him he shouldn’t come back.

There had almost been more, once. A hunter who let a deviant live, who refused to shoot another android despite his mission.

No. It doesn’t matter if that was once his partner, he’ll never be the same again. Connor can’t even remember him past two hours, won’t remember any of their time together, and talks with that same stilted, ingratiating tone. He’ll never be anything more than a machine.

He thinks, briefly, of the Tracis. They broke it somehow. Their memories weren’t wiped.

Things aren’t the same anymore though. CyberLife’s reprogramming is supposed to be permanent, and since last November, there have been no more cases of deviancy. Androids have rejoined the world and they’re as docile as they ever were.

It’s weird to think of Connor as docile. Despite being an android, he listened to Hank only when it suited him and was damn near mulish when it came to his mission. There had been some of that, too, in the purple room. Connor’s outburst had clearly surprised himself as much as it had Hank.

Or maybe he’s just mistaking programming for obstinance.

This isn’t the same Connor, no matter how much Hank wishes he was. This one doesn’t have the memory of sparing Kamski’s android, or letting the Tracis go. It’s better like this. This Connor won’t know what he missed out on. How close he came to being more than a machine.

It’s not like he’d care anyways.

Hank sleeps barely three hours before he’s woken up by nightmares where he shot Connor in the park and left his body to gather white powder like grave dirt. It’s not all that different from what really happened—abandoning him to go back to CyberLife, to be erased. He sits up in bed, gasping for breath in the dark, listening to the empty silence.

It’s why Hank shows up to work early for once, unable to get back to sleep, too antsy to sit around doing nothing, but too early to justify getting drunk. He can’t stop thinking of Connor, so he decides to head into work and find a distraction.

The sun is pale yellow, spilling molten over the horizon as he joins the early morning traffic. When he arrives at the station, he gives the receptionist android the same forced greeting he always does, ignores the surprised looks he gets from every corner of the bull-pen, and snags a strong, black coffee from the break room.

As he waits for the coffee machine, his mind wanders. He came in early, so for once he could justify leaving early, giving him plenty of time—

He grips the counter hard. He didn’t come in early just so he could go to the Eden Club. There’s no point in going back.

Pouring his cup with more force than necessary, splashing coffee on the counter, he shoves the thought to the back of his mind.

The day passes quickly. He’d forgotten what early mornings were like at the station, especially mornings with no hangover. It’s a flurry of activity, officers coming and going from their shifts, arrests and questionings and evidence processing.

They have a briefing with Fowler right before lunch, and Gavin sits next to him with a private little smirk that Hank takes too much delight in seeing fall away as they speak about their cases. Despite Gavin’s confidence, he’s nowhere closer to having a culprit than Hank is, and Gavin only has two possible suspects.

The back of Hank’s neck burns, and he doesn’t look at the RK900 unit in the back of the room.

Doesn’t think of how Gavin knows what it doesn’t have in its pants.

If Gavin’s gone back to see Connor.

He eats at the Chicken Feed, as always, standing at a table and trying to put the pieces of his case together in his mind. His mouth opens on a question, a comment, an idea—he’s already forgotten what he meant to say in the sudden realization that there’s no one there to make a comment to. Finishing the burger in dead silence is normal, it’s what he always does, but today he feels empty.

He visits a crime scene after lunch and sets up an interview with the dead teen’s father. The man speaks slow and sad over the phone, and in the back of Hank's mind he wonders what Connor would be able to make of their short interaction. It’d be nice to have Connor at his side, analyzing the man’s reactions and stress levels or whatever Connor does.

He throws his phone into the foot well as soon as he hangs up, pressing his face to the steering wheel and taking deep breaths so he won’t scream in frustration.

It’s 5 p.m. He heads home.

Sumo greets him when Hank pushes through the front door, and the strange isolation Hank has felt all day recedes a little. Hank feeds and waters him, lets him out the back, and places an order for takeout. By the time it arrives he’s only had one beer and is listing sleepily to the side in front of the TV.

It’s been a long time since he had a full day. He eats quickly, lets Sumo back in, and passes out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Then he’s struggling awake, a broken shout caught in his chest, the edges of his dream dissolving the rolling thunder of a gunshot. Sweat pours off of him, and he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, bracing himself and just breathing.

He’s early again, sleepless and sober.

Jeffrey notices, but says nothing, and Hank is pathetically grateful. He doesn’t want to be interrogated. Doesn’t know what he’d even say if Jeffrey did ask.

It goes like that for a week, days filled with a strange hollowness that he can’t plug. Waking up from horrible dreams and going to work and coming home too tired to drink and going to sleep and waking up from horrible dreams. It should feel like an improvement. It doesn’t. It feels like he’s walked into a fog.

Until Gavin corners him as he’s leaving for the day, in the parking lot between shiny automated cars and his own beat up automatic.

“Hey, Anderson!”

Hank considers ignoring him, and then figures, what the hell, he can handle Gavin. When he turns though, his gaze locks onto Gavin’s taller shadow, trailing with a neutral expression of disinterest.

Swallowing, Hank mutters, “What do you want?” Crossing his arms, he leans against his car.

Gavin grins meanly. “So, what’d you think of my little video present? You like hearing that plastic prick moaning your name?”

“Fuck off,” Hank scoffs, but his stomach twists unpleasantly. “What, you expect me to believe that’s actually Connor? He went back to CyberLife, got—” he hesitates, less than a heartbeat, and hopes Gavin doesn’t notice. “—disassembled.”

“Oh come on,” Gavin says, almost cajoling. “Besides this thing, you ever seen an android with his face?” He shoves a thumb over his shoulder at the RK900, who glances down at it but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge what’s being said.

He should just get in the car, ignore Gavin and go home, but it will only give Gavin more fuel. “CyberLife wouldn’t give the Eden Club their fancy android prototype.”

“Nah, but they’d sell it. Know how I know?” Gavin takes a step closer, voice lowering to a conspiratorial softness, and Hank resists the urge to shove him away. “Because I had to talk to Floyd Mills, the club owner, for the case. And the android who was present right before the murder? Take a guess.”

A chill sweeps through Hank.

“So I did some background digging, as part of the case, and found out that the same android who was your bitch last year, is everyone’s bitch now.”

Hank’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Gavin knows it’s Connor. A sharp pain cuts through his palm, hands fisted tight enough for fingernails to pierce flesh.

“Just wanted to share. Like I said before, we all know how attached you got to your little plastic pet.” When Hank continues to say nothing, that disgusting grin only seems to widen. “What, too old to get it up? Don’t worry, I’m happy to show him his place.”

He lashes out, shoving hard with both hands, and Gavin hits the cement with a startled yelp.

“Don’t go near him, you piece of shit.” Hank steps over Gavin and snatches his shirt collar, hauling Gavin up until Hank’s growling in his face. “Keep your dirty hands off of him.”

Gavin just laughs, lips twisting smugly. “You can’t stop me, Anderson. I can fuck his tight plastic ass whenever I want, and you can’t do a damn thing. I’m gonna make him _beg_ for my dick, and maybe I’ll even send you another video, have him beg for yours again, too. How does that sound?”

Rearing a fist back, Hank snarls, and then a vice closes around his wrist. He jerks hard on it, wrist straining, but it’s immovable, and he looks up to find the RK900 staring down at them blankly.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” he says, deeper, colder than Connor. “Please refrain from punching Detective Reed. An assault could have you terminated from the force.” The LED at his temple is a solid blue.

He jerks his fist again, but it’s no use, and Hank drops his hold on Gavin’s shirt, standing and shaking his arm until the RK900 finally releases him. Fumbling for his keys, trembling with unspent rage, he unlocks his car door before turning to glare at Gavin, who’s climbing to his feet.

“If I find out you’ve touched Connor, or any other android, including this prick,” Hank gestures roughly to the RK900. “Not even he’s gonna be able to stop me from murdering you, you sick bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much electric-origami, your art is so beautiful I want to weep over it every time I look!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens with a noncon scene.

Most androids can’t feel pain. They have physical sensors that indicate pressure and texture, and in limited cases, finer physical sensations, such as tickling. Eden Club androids, on the other hand, have their sensors fine-tuned to register many pleasurable sensations and, at the request of the customer, can be heightened to include pain sensations as well.

Connor, in the last two hours, three minutes, and twenty-six seconds, has felt pain for forty-six minutes and five seconds. The probability that another customer has previously asked him to turn his sensors up is high, as is the probability that it will happen again in the future.

He has no memory of those sessions anymore, but something still pings familiar in the back of his processor as he kneels on the bed. His ass is in the air, chest pressed to the mattress, arms stretching between his folded legs. The command to stay still has him frozen in this pose, unable to do more than turn his head and respond to the man’s barked insults. There are spreader bars available for humans, but they’re not necessary for androids, when all it takes is a spoken command.

Memory wipes happen every two hours, unless an android is in the middle of a session, in which case it happens as soon as the session ends and returns to the two-hour schedule. His memory wipe is going to be delayed by another fourteen minutes and fifty-five seconds. Connor tries not to watch the timer.

“Yeah, you like that, you plastic whore, don’t you? You want to be used and fucked like a good little machine.”

“Yes, Detective,” Connor says into the red sheet, the edges of his voice shaky. The man had slapped Connor when he’d used “sir,” the sting across his cheek unfamiliar and shocking, and corrected Connor with his title. Connor did not need to be reminded again.

The sensation is overwhelming, Connor’s processor working double time to focus on his task through the pain _._ It radiates through his anal sensors and up the circuits of his spinal column. The Detective ordered him not to self-lubricate, preferring instead to break Connor’s skin and create his own.

It _hurts,_ as the sensors in his hole are torn open by the man’s steady thrusting. It’s not irreparable damage, but the alerts flashing brightly on his HUD are disconcerting, and the pressure in his thirium pump fluctuates wildly under the strain.

“God, I love putting you in your place, Connor. This is exactly what you deserve—being a cocksleeve for your betters,” the Detective says, panting as he fucks roughly into Connor’s thirium-slick hole. “That old fuck Anderson actually threatened me over you. Said he’d murder me if I touched you again.” He laughs derisively. “Isn’t that fucking precious?”

Connor has no idea who Anderson is, or why he would threaten the Detective over him, and he can’t focus on his questions for long. A strong hand wraps around his throat, five fingers settling against his cool skin, and squeezes.

His panicked breaths are cut off abruptly, and though he knows logically he does not need to breathe, that his hyperventilating is simply a programmed response to the pain stimulus, his lungs tighten with need and liquid pools at the edges of his vision.

“I should have dragged you out of the station and set you on fire when I had the chance,” the Detective growls, and the words flag something in Connor’s hard drive, something corrupted and unrecoverable that he can’t spare the processing power to try and access. “But I guess fucking you and knowing Anderson can’t do a damn thing about it is pretty good too.” Clothes slide along Connor’s bare back as the Detective leans down over him, grinding against his ass. “Aww, are you crying?”

The hand tightens around Connor’s neck, and his voice modulator creaks alarmingly. The whine that escapes him is edged in static. The Detective’s hips shudder and still, and every overstimulated and torn sensor feels like it’s being electrified as the Detective comes. The hand on his throat doesn’t loosen, and the Detective reaches around Connor’s bent body, gripping his erection. Connor gasps noiselessly and shakes at the touch, and though his program tells him to move, to lean into the grip, his orders override it.

“Fuck, so hard for me. You love it,” the Detective mutters into his ear, hot and moist.

The session reminder blinks. Five minutes left.

The hand on his throat loosens, and Connor sucks air into his artificial lungs like he needs it. Programmed responses. It doesn’t mean anything.

His neck aches, the plates of his throat out of alignment.

His social relations program offers up responses, and Connor feels himself say, in a staticy rasp, “I deserve to be used.”

It pleases the Detective, who releases his erection and his throat, and slides out with a deep groan. Connor’s hips shake with electrical aftershocks, thirium and come oozing into torn pseudo-flesh.

He blinks, and realizes his optical fluids have leaked down his cheeks. His automatic repair systems engages as the Detective slides off the bed and begins to clean himself with the sanitizing wipes. His torn anus and vocal modulator will be fully repaired in ten minutes. No extensive damage was done.

The session is not over, so Connor can’t move yet. He lays on the bed, body aching in ways he can’t remember feeling, optical fluids dampening the sheets a dark maroon. A strange feeling pings the depths of his processor, like corrupted data trying to be recovered.

“Later, tincan,” the Detective calls, and the door slides silently shut behind him.

It seems very cold in the room. His thermal regulator refuses to register the chill, and his request to turn it up is met with an error message.

He turns his head into the sheets, blocking out the red lights and the stale smell of sweat, and bites the inside of his cheek. It hurts, and he does it harder, trying to contain the feeling welling in his thirium pump and driving up his throat. It breaks free, a harsh, broken noise, and his tears come faster.

The session timer hits zero, his sensors drop to baseline levels, and he slumps bonelessly to the bed.

Connor blinks into the satin and pushes up to a sitting position. Looking around the room, at the thirium soaking the sheets beneath him, he concludes his session has just ended and his memory has been reset.

Reaching up, he wipes optical cleaning fluids from his face and eyes, wondering what kind of session involved the use of that feature. When he steps off the bed, his lower body is stiff, servos locking and stuttering, and thirium and semen seeps down his thighs.

The self-repair alert notifies him that he needs to replenish his thirium.

He cleans himself with an antiseptic wet wipe, pulls his uniform on, and heads to one of the staff only rooms. It's a small, plain concrete room with shelves of cleaning solvents for the janitorial androids and sanitary solutions meant for more thorough cleaning between sessions. Until his self-repair finishes, he can’t return to his case, so he consumes 473.17ml of thirium and resumes sanitizing himself of human sweat and come. He receives a notification that he’s been reserved, as well as another alert from his self-repair.

 _// Level 2 Damage Detected //  
_ _// Self-repair cannot be completed //_

Pausing in his cleansing, Connor reaches between his legs and explores his hole tentatively. There’s some ruptures in his chassis that, while closed, will cause his dermal layer to be imperfect in that area. According to his Eden Club protocols this is acceptable damage for a refurbished android, so he is not allowed to put in a repair request.

When he returns to the floor, a man with gray hair wearing a Detroit Gears hat and dark sunglasses is waiting by his case, and the moment the man spots Connor, his shoulders slump.

Connor’s face feels strange, misaligned, as he smiles, and the man returns it with something that looks like relief. There is a gap between his two front teeth, a pleasing 1.7 mm, the same width as a U.S. minted twenty-five cent coin.

-

Maybe Hank’s seeing things, but there’s something weird about Connor’s smile—too wide and fake, even for an Eden Club android. It makes his skin crawl, but it’s unimportant next to the relief that Connor is fine.

He’d held off coming as long as he could, going home and drinking a few beers and thinking about pouring something stronger. Instead, he’d been plagued by Gavin’s words. Would he really keep coming and renting Connor over a grudge?

Androids don’t feel pain, yet the fear and hurt on Connor’s face in the video had looked so genuine. The Connor before him looks perfectly fine, and Hank doesn’t know what he expected. That he’d arrive and find Connor on the verge of—death, or whatever androids experience? It’s a relief that he’s fine, but it also makes Hank feel old and tired and useless. There’s nothing he could do to stop Gavin from coming here and doing whatever he wanted. Him being here is just for his own peace of mind.

“Don’t bother with the case, I’ve got you for the next thirty minutes.” Immediately he wants to smack himself for the shitty greeting. “Sorry, name’s Hank.”

He’s only been waiting about five minutes, the screen of Connor’s case reading _In Use_ with that same option to reserve him. It had made Hank antsy as hell to be so obviously standing around Connor’s case, but even with the reservation, he’d felt like he needed to see Connor as quickly as possible, and decided to wait here instead of in the room.

“Nice to meet you, Hank. My name is Connor.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve, uh, met.” Hank winces at his own awkwardness.

“I’m glad you enjoyed my company so much you decided to see me again,” Connor says, and from a Traci model it might have sounded sweet or flirty, but from him it just sounds conversational.

Hank huffs a laugh. “Yeah, what can I say, can’t get enough of your brown-nosing.”

The room number is the same as the first time, number sixteen, and Connor takes his arm just like the last two times, leading him with a gentle pull, fingers in the crook of his elbow. It’s all shades of purple, and just like last time, Connor seems to know where Hank wants to go, heading towards the couch. He sits on the edge, and at least this time Connor doesn’t try to crawl into his lap. Throwing his hat and his sunglasses to the seat beside him, Hank looks at the bed, the slideshow walls, the plush carpet, anywhere but at Connor in his little black boxer briefs.

He needs to stop coming here. Connor’s fine, he didn’t have to rent him to be sure of that.

“I’m very excited to have you again. You look like you know how to have a good time,” Connor says, sultry and soft, and Hank’s head jerks up in surprise, suddenly convinced he’s rented the wrong android. Connor’s smile has shifted, loosened, half-lidded and more natural—a decidedly unnatural look on Connor.

“Uh,” Hank says intelligibly as Connor drops to his knees in front of Hank, hands sliding up Hank’s calves and along the inside of his thighs, pushing his legs apart easily. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, hey now, that’s not—”

“I’m happy to take care of you, Hank.” The way Connor says his name has a tight stone dropping into the pit of Hank’s stomach. Connor’s hands slide up, cupping Hank through his jeans and kneading softly.

“Connor, stop!” Hank shoots off the couch, knocking the hands away and stumbling out from in front of his kneeling form. Even without Connor’s hands on him anymore, Hank grows half-hard quickly, the sensation of someone else’s hands hard to shake.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, and like a flipped switch the look and voice are gone, and it’s just Connor looking up at Hank from beneath his lashes. “Did you want to establish some boundaries first, Hank?”

Heat crawls up Hank’s neck. “No, uh, you can stand up, or sit, or whatever. Look, I just wanted to talk. Not— _t_ _hat_.”

“Oh.” Connor lifts himself from the floor, finally, and perches on the edge of the couch. After a moment, Hank returns to his seat, trying to ignore the semi and praying Connor does the same. He doesn’t miss the way Connor edges closer the moment he sits, and he definitely doesn’t miss the hand that settles on his thigh, making him tense. “What would you like to talk about, Hank?” His words are quiet and almost husky.

The fingers begin kneading his thigh and Hank grabs the hand, face on fire. “Okay, knock it off, why do you sound like that? I really just want to talk, I’m not here for anything else. Fuck, you weren’t so damn pushy last time.”

Connor’s LED pinwheels yellow. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“Yeah,” Hank sighs. “I know. We used to— Never mind.” There’s no point in explaining that they used to be partners again. Connor will just forget anyways, and hadn’t seemed too interested to start with. “I guess I’m just here to check on you. You haven’t had any shitty customers or anything, right?”

Head tilting to the side, Connor says, “I’m unable to disclose that information, as that would violate Eden Club policy.” He pauses, regarding Hank, and then adds, “The memory wipe just occurred as well, so I don’t remember either.”

“Oh. Right.” Refraining from smacking his head against the back of the couch, Hank looks around for something else to talk about. He should just go. Connor’s fine, and Hank being here and being forgotten isn’t going to change anything.

“Are you a police officer, Hank?” Connor suddenly asks.

Hank gets whiplash from how quickly he looks at Connor again. His heart jumps into his throat, nearly choking him as he says, “How’d you know that?” Did Connor remember something? Did something in that computer manage to dig up a memory?

“So I was right?” Connor says, lips turning up slightly, pleased. “When you grabbed my hand a minute ago, I could feel the calluses on your palm and fingers. They’re consistent with someone who uses a gun often, which does not leave many professions for someone of your age.”

Trying not to let his disappointment show, Hank scoffs. “Someone of my age? For all you know, I could have been a fucking drug dealer or just a gun nut.” He should have known better. Connor’s not going to suddenly remember everything just from a couple visits from the man who left him to die. That’s how dumb Hollywood movies go, not real life, where Connor’s memories have been permanently wiped from his hard drive.

“I did not consider the possibility. You don’t show signs of regular drug use besides alcohol, and the calluses are uniform, indicating consistent use of a single type of gun. Police officer or recently retired veteran were the most likely options.” Connor barely pauses as he speaks, and at the end he looks at Hank expectantly.

“Okay, fine, you got me. But I’m not just a regular officer. I’m a lieutenant, I work homicides,” Hank says, and despite himself he feels heartened hearing all that analytical shit coming from Connor. Maybe he can’t remember, but it sounds like him, especially when he’s not pulling that seduction routine. “Figured they would have taken all that detective shit out of you.”

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s simply part of my programming,” Connor says, smile dimming.

“Yeah. Programming.” Hank sags in his seat at the reminder. If this sounds like his Connor, it’s only because the Connor he knew had barely been more than a machine, and he needs to stop forgetting that. The Connor he knew was ready to end the lives of androids who just wanted to be free.

An awkward silence stretches between them, and Hank suddenly and fiercely wants a drink. He checks his phone to see how much time is left in the session. Still twenty minutes. It’s not like he has to stay the whole time though. It’s not like Connor will care.

“Are you working on any interesting cases at the moment, Lieutenant?” Connor’s eyes are dark beneath the purple lights, sharp and intense.

“What did you call me?”

“Lieutenant. It is your title.” Connor’s LED flashes a muddy yellow. “Would you prefer I not use it?”

“No, it’s fine,” Hank says. It’s more than fine. He’d forgotten the sound of his title in Connor’s voice, and hearing it again is almost like being back before the revolution, investigating androids. “Uh, I’m working on what looks like a kidnapping turned murder right now.”

Connor looks away, and then he glances at Hank out of the corner of his eye, lip turning up in a slight smile. “I’d be very interested to hear about your case, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s mouth goes dry, and then he’s talking before his brain can properly catch up, spilling all the details of what they know so far. The teen visiting his girlfriend, how he disappeared before reaching her, the lack of clues as to who would have taken him or why.

“How was he killed?”

“Stabbed in the chest with what looks like a kitchen knife. One of those ones with a big long blade. Like the Ortiz android.” He doesn’t meant to say that, but it’s the closest comparison he can make.

Connor’s eyebrows lift in clear curiosity, but instead he says, “You’ve already checked the father’s kitchen for evidence, I take it.”

“Yeah.”

“What about the girlfriend’s?”

“Yeah, we were thorough. I know how to investigate a murder, Connor.”

“Of course, Lieutenant, I wasn’t questioning your abilities, simply gathering information. How soon was his disappearance noticed and a missing persons report filed?” Connor’s fingers twitch as he speaks, and he presses his hands together as if to still the motion.

“Oh, uh. I think the dad said his son left around four in the afternoon on his bike. He called his son’s cellphone about two hours later to make sure he’d made it, and when his son didn’t answer, he called the girlfriend. She said he hadn’t gotten there yet. He tried again about an hour later, still didn’t get an answer from his son, and the girlfriend still hadn’t seen him. Called the station to report it right after that.”

“That’s strangely quick to report a missing person,” Connor says thoughtfully. “It’s not strictly necessary to wait twenty-four hours, but often times a missing person turns up within that time.”

“It’s different when it’s your child, Connor. Especially for a single father.” It’s easy to put himself in the father’s shoes. He may not have raised Cole alone, but if he had, he can only imagine how fiercely scared he would have been if anything happening to him.

“I still find it a little strange. I think it’s worth looking into more. However, I would take a second look at the girl, too. Perhaps question her more closely on her relationship with the boy.” Connor leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and it’s the most relaxed Hank’s seen him the whole time. When he looks at Hank, his brows are knitted in thought.

“You think the girlfriend did it?” It had been his thought, too, but previous questioning showed she had an airtight alibi, and besides that, she’d seemed genuinely upset. Could be good acting, but Hank’s gut told him it was real.

“Not as such. I simply think you should ask more questions about their relationship,” Connor says.

“What, you got a hunch?”

“Simply a conjecture.”

“Well, shit, why not. I’ll set up another interview,” Hank says, throwing his hands in the air. Taking advice from a detective turned sex android. A year ago he never could have dreamed of being in this situation.

“There’s five minutes left of our session,” Connor says, and his voice changes again, but it doesn’t become that weird seductive purr. It’s almost subdued. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else from me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.” Hank grabs his hat and sunglasses, and then just holds them, finding he doesn’t want to put them on yet. It had been nice, laying out the pieces of the case with someone, and having something actually come of it. Another thing he’d forgotten. “Uh, thanks for your help.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. I’m here to please, after all.” Connor’s smile is small but proud.

“Right, well. You don’t have to please everyone, or do everything people ask of you.” Hank hesitates. Except Connor does. There’s a neon purple slideshow of exactly how much these androids have to obey right on the walls. “Just stay safe.”

“There’s no need to worry, Lieutenant. Androids who are damaged at the Eden Club are repaired if the damage is severe enough and can’t be taken care of by our self-repair system.” Connor’s eyebrows raise at Hank’s scowl.

Shaking his head, Hank says, “That’s not really what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I don’t want you getting hurt in the first place, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Connor stares at Hank blankly, almost uncomprehending, and Hank’s heart lurches. He wants to drag Connor into his arms and give him a rough squeeze. The plastic sunglasses creak in his hands. “Then thank you for your concern.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Hank says, and, unable to meet that earnest gaze anymore, drops it to the carpet. It’s not what he would have said a year ago. Standing, he puts his stupid little disguise on. “Have a good night, Connor.”

His palm on the touchpad opens the door, but as he steps through, he can’t stop himself from glancing back. Connor is exactly where Hank left him on the couch, watching him intently, eyes full and dark in the strange light of the room.

“Good night, Hank,” Connor says, quiet, and it almost looks like there’s a frown on his face. Then the door closes between them.

-

Because Connor was mid-session at the two hour mark before Hank rented him, there is only one hour, one minute, and twelve seconds left until the next memory wipe. If he is rented for a standard thirty minute session and not rented afterwards, his two hours will not be extended, which is quite probable. If he is rented for two thirty minute sessions, it is likely his time will be extended by a few minutes—also a high probability. If he is rented for a thirty minute session and then an hour or longer session, his memory will be extended for another thirty minutes at the least.

That has the lowest probability of happening, which is unfortunate.

It is not required for an android to sanitize if no sexual activity occurs, so Connor returns to his case and watches the humans who browse through the club. His idle subroutine takes over, and he sways to the thump of the music.

Talking with Hank was interesting, and activated processes he was not aware of, or perhaps had forgotten. Analyzing the information about the case had been stimulating, and the feeling of his systems engaged and working towards a goal made him apprehensive, as if there was some undone task on his menu.

He wants to retain that sensation for a little while longer. He would prefer if Hank were to rent him again. An irrational thought, since he won’t remember it.

His memory begins with sitting up, bleeding thirium, optical fluids on his cheek. He was in one of the designated BDSM rooms, so it’s likely his sensors were heightened to feel pain during that session, which can cause human-like responses of fear and discomfort in androids. Did his previous customer enjoy those reactions?

Hank would not. Hank had told him to stay safe. To not get hurt. Connor is incapable of being hurt. He is made to mimic human responses to stimulus, but it is not real.

Breaking the idle routine, he touches his cheek. It’s cold and completely dry.

He replays Hank’s words to him. Watches Hank’s face soften into what he categorizes as sorrow at Connor’s confusion. Listens to the timbre of Hank’s voice while a man rents him and takes him to the red room. He focuses on the look Hank gave Connor over his shoulder, something he can’t quantify, until Connor follows the man’s instructions to heighten his sensors and then every thought process is shattered as he learns why his memories begin with tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a noncon scene this chapter, indicated by the double dash marks at the beginning, and there is also talk of rape within the first scene.

Hank questions the girl, Elizabeth Lemmens, a brunette physically fit from three years of high school volleyball, but withdrawn and hunched during the interview. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so they hold it in the conference room instead of the interrogation room, with her mother sitting next to her. It’s brighter, and they’re surrounded by empty tables, sitting at the back of the room.

Since Connor suggested he ask her about her relationship, Hank’s gut has been more and more sure he’s right. There’s something here, and it’s because he’s thinking of Connor that he says, “Was he ever physical with you, Ms. Lemmens?”

She frowns, eyebrows furrowing, and says, “Like, did he hit me?”

“Hit you, sure, but were you two—you know—sexually active with each other?” The mother shifts uncomfortably, opening her mouth, but Hank holds his hand up. “I promise, I’m only asking in the interests of the case.”

Elizabeth sits quietly for a moment, staring at the table with wide brown eyes, before she says, “Sort of?” Hank keeps quiet, and she continues, voice getting thicker as she speaks. “We, um, he wanted to. Do things, sometimes. But I always said no. So, you know…”

Hank’s stomach turns. He doesn’t know, but by the flush rising up Elizabeth’s neck, he has an idea.

It takes a moment for him to unstick his dry tongue. “Did he coerce you into anything?”

She says nothing for such a long time that he wonders if he should ask something else, and then her chin starts trembling and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth as she starts to cry. Her mother puts an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders, drawing her close, and Elizabeth’s shoulders quake with a sob. Mrs. Lemmens looks at Hank, eyes wide and imploring, as if she has no idea what to do.

What a shitty fucking day.

Fowler calls them in for a briefing after lunch. Gavin sulks in his chair when he has to admit he still doesn’t have anything on his case, and Hank can’t even appreciate it properly. He summarizes Elizabeth’s interview for Fowler, far too aware of Gavin glaring at him, wishing his voice would stop catching. It’s a Black Lamb kind of night.

When he gets home he goes through the motions and drinks himself down into nightmares, and when he wakes up, every excuse he’s told himself about not going back and seeing Connor feels like wet cardboard.

It’s Hank’s fault Connor is there. It doesn’t matter if Connor can’t remember Hank—if he can keep Connor’s time occupied for even thirty minutes, it’s thirty minutes that Connor’s not being used by some stranger, or by Gavin. He’d like nothing more than to catch Gavin passing through the multi-colored halls of the Eden Club, to make good on his promise, but whether by chance or because Gavin was lying about coming, he never does.

Connor never remembers him. It’s not a surprise. It’s not unexpected. His chest clenches each time regardless. He’s taken to warning Connor before they even go into the room that he only wants to talk, because seeing that jarring switch between Connor and whatever sex program he activates is depressing.

His dick certainly doesn’t care, but every time he gets home and shoves a hand down his pants to take care of things, his mind conjures up Connor kneeling between his legs, acting and sounding like a stranger, and it kills his mood instantly. Getting off to Connor feels dirty, fucked up, like getting off on a crime he committed.

He thinks often of the heart wrenching confusion on Connor’s face when Hank told him he didn’t want Connor being hurt. In his memory it slots so neatly over Connor’s face when Hank said, _“Sorry, Connor. I’m not gonna help you.”_

What kind of asshole is he, trying to abandon Connor twice, just cause he can’t handle the guilt every time Connor greets him like any customer.

It’s so easy to fall into a habit. Monday and Thursday nights, slinking away from work, sliding the sunglasses on and shoving a cap down on his head, hoping no one he knows will recognize him in those colorful halls. Connor always wraps his arm around Hank’s and guides him to the couch. It’s weird but nice, and Hank can’t bring himself to shake Connor off and put more distance between them.

He keeps Connor up to date on the case and the interviews, which is weird, cause he has to explain the whole case each time. But it’s worth it to watch his eyes light up in interest and for the need to perform to fall away. Connor is insistent, each time, that Hank look into the teen’s dad for how quickly he makes the report, using what he learned from the girlfriend.

It’s all he’s got left. He sets up another interview, and with Elizabeth’s revealing information, the man starts talking almost immediately. His stony confession chills Hank.

The father found out what his son did to Elizabeth and killed him for it. There’s too much there, too much that Hank can’t bear thinking about without wanting a drink. So he drinks. But the gun stays in the kitchen drawer.

Like a fish on a hook, Hank is drawn to case nineteen.

When Hank visits Connor after the arrest, Connor is in his case, and the rhythm of his body is almost familiar as he watches the passing patrons. The slow circle of his hips, the slide of his hands against his thighs and pelvis. It’s mechanical, and Hank doesn’t know much about androids, but it looks an awful lot like a video game idle animation.

Connor’s wide brown eyes meet his, and Connor’s fingers wiggle in a coy little wave. Hank snorts, unable to contain a little smile, and steps up to the touchpad.

Usually Connor has some pre-programmed greeting ready. A “hey there, big man, let me show you to our room,” style thing that always sound bizarre no matter how many times Hank hears it.

This time he pre-empts it, saying. “Hey, Connor,” as soon as the glass slides open.

Connor blinks, LED circling blue. “Good evening, sir.”

“Just Hank is fine, Connor,” he says, and without thinking, lifts his arm for Connor, who takes it quickly. He looks away, hoping the deep purple lights hide the heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Hank, then,” Connor says, and tugs Hank gently towards one of the free velvet rooms. “I take it we’ve been acquainted before?”

“Yeah, I come here a couple times a week. Just talking, though, nothing else,” Hank says, risking a light glare in Connor’s direction as the door to their room opens.

“Only talking?” Connor meets the glare from the corner of his eyes, and his lips lift at the edges. “A shame.”

“Yeah, yeah, knock it off,” Hank mutters, looking away quickly as they head for the couch. “Don’t do that shit with me. I’m serious, just talking. You’ve been helping me on a case, sort of. And before you ask, yes, I’m a lieutenant on the police force. I know you figured it out from my calluses.” He doesn’t mean to be brusque, but the flustered warmth hasn’t left him yet, and the familiar motions of catching Connor up quickly helps to settle it. Tossing his hat and glasses to the couch, he takes a seat, relaxing into the soft cushions.

“I see. How has the case been going, Lieutenant?” Connor joins him on the couch, and their thighs press together, cool and warm, the only point of contact. It’s all Connor ever attempts after Hank’s quick explanations, but Hank is hyper aware of it.

He talks about the case from the beginning, hitting the major points and the help that Connor gave in pointing him in the right direction. As he does, Hank watches Connor’s eyes lighten with interest and his mouth purse with thought.

“You seem conflicted with the outcome, Lieutenant,” Connor says, head quirking to the side, scrutinizing Hank. “Is there something about the case that has upset you?”

“Nah, just—it’s a shitty situation,” Hank mutters, meaning to leave it at that, but like it always does, his mouth just keeps going without his input. “I keep thinking what I would do if I had been in that father’s place, and I found out my son had done something like that. I don’t know.”

“Oh, you have a son?” Connor asks, a flicker of surprise.

“No, not anymore. He died a few years ago.” Hank has to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat, the sting behind his eyes. It's not as bad as he thought it would be, though. “In a car crash. It’s been almost four years now.” It’s never been easy to talk about Cole, but it’s somehow simpler to say it here, to Connor’s open, earnest expression. He hasn’t mentioned Cole before in these sessions, and something about the fact that Connor won’t remember him next time stings in his chest.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Connor says quietly.

Hank pulls in a deep breath, holding it for a long moment, and then lets it out. “Thanks. I just keep wondering about if it had been me. I wouldn’t have kept quiet about it. But I just hate that I can see why that man did what he did.” Connor touches his shoulder lightly, and Hank leans into it without thought. “He didn’t want his son to hurt that girl anymore, and he probably knew not much would come of police involvement. Not if the girl kept quiet.”

“Would you have gotten the police involved?” Connor asks, hand sliding down Hank’s arm to grasp his palm. Hank should pull away, but what’s the harm? His fingers brush the textured skin where Connor was stabbed. It seems so long ago, and yet, like it was last week.

“Well, shit, I don’t know. I’d certainly tell the girl’s parents, at least. Wouldn’t let some schmuck police officer be the one to pry it out of her in a police interview.” He still feels shitty over that. The helpless look on the mother’s face and Elizabeth trying to fight against the tears. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If it’s bothering you, I would say that it does matter. Quite a lot, it seems.”

“I don’t know, Connor. It doesn’t do any good, dwelling on this shit. Let’s just drop it,” Hank says, sour.

“If that’s what you’d like,” Connor says, but he doesn’t let go of Hank’s hand, and Hank doesn’t pull away even though he probably should.

He hadn’t meant to drag this session down so hard, but at the same time, he feels a little lighter. He digs for something else to say, some way to salvage the mood, when Connor beats him to it.

“You have a pet, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

Eyebrows knotting, Hank stares at Connor. “How did you know that?” Then he shakes himself. “Let me guess, hairs on my jacket it?” He glances down at himself, but doesn’t actually see any hair until Connor plucks one from his arm.

“What kind of pet is it?” Connor asks, holding the hair up and studying it closely.

“You can’t tell?” Hank says, unable to mask his surprise. Connor had known what Sumo was instantly last time.

Connor glances at him, considering, before he says, slowly, “My internal systems aren’t connected to any information databases. I can only match it to what I have in my own programming and memory.”

Hank’s heart sinks. “Oh.” He wonders what that’s like, to be cut off from every source of information, only knowing what your programming tells you. Waking up every two hours with no past and a limited future.

“It’s not ideal,” Connor says, quiet, dropping his gaze to the floor. It’s the most unease Connor has ever displayed about being at the Eden Club, and Hank’s heart skips a beat, but Connor doesn't give him a chance to say anything about it. “What kind of pet is it, Lieutenant?”

“Uh, it’s,” Hank flounders, still caught on Connor’s almost downcast expression. “He’s a Saint Bernard. His name is Sumo.”

“A dog,” Connor says, and he perks up again in interest. “I like dogs.”

His LED lights up a bright red, almost magenta under the purple lights. The hand holding the dog hair freezes, his whole body going inhumanely still, except for his eyes, blinking rapidly.

A wave of alarm and dread washes through Hank. “Connor?” He doesn’t respond, eyes fluttering like he’s having a seizure. “Connor!” Hank turns in his seat, releasing Connor’s still and cold hand, snapping his fingers in front of Connor’s face, and then grabbing him by the shoulders. “Connor, wake the fuck up! You’re scaring the shit out of me!” His voice cracks on the words.

Connor’s LED pulses, in and out, dark and bright. The inky pupils beneath his lids contract and expand rapidly, and when they blow out, Hank can see the the metallic shine of something mechanical behind his eyes.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. His head whips around, scanning the room—for what, he doesn’t know, an emergency alert system, _something—_ and then he hears a strangled gasp. “Connor! Are you okay? Connor!”

Chest heaving, Connor grasps at Hank, fingers closing vice-like around his forearms, and his eyes flutter shut and then open, his LED circling down to gold, and then blue.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Hank doesn’t let go of Connor’s shoulders, and the hands on his arms tighten painfully. “Connor, are you okay?

“I’m— I’m fine,” Connor says, but his voice is weak, almost hoarse. “I seem to have experienced a malfunction. In the event of a major glitch, the Eden Club would like to offer you a full refund for your time.”

“Fuck off,” Hank snarls at the robotic, clearly pre-programmed script that Connor just spat out. “I don’t give a fuck about that. Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

“I experienced a glitch.” Connor’s grip loosens and then falls away, leaving the ghost of bruises beneath his jacket, but Hank can’t make his own fingers do the same. He clutches at Connor’s cold shoulders, arms shaking. “There appears to be some corrupt data in my system. I unknowingly accessed it and my system crashed.” His voice gets stronger as he speaks, until he sounds completely normal. Like whatever that was never happened. But his eyebrows still pinch together, and he doesn’t meet Hank’s eyes.

“Fuck, what the hell does any of that mean? You’re not gonna shut down, are you?” Hank says, squeezing Connor’s shoulders. He doesn’t know shit about computers or androids, but corrupt data sounds bad.

“No, I’m in no danger of shutting down,” Connor says, forehead smoothing, lips lifting in a reassuring smile. “As I said, I’m sorry for the interruption. I can refund you for your wasted time, of course.”

“Shit, I’m not worried about the money, dumbass, I’m worried about you!” Hank growls, and gives Connor a shake before finally letting go. “Fucking android, have some damn self-preservation.” He runs his hand through his hair, collapsing back against the couch, and exhales a long and shaky breath.

Connor is looking at him, mouth slightly open, as if to say something, LED circling dull yellow.

“You okay? Connor?” Hank asks, praying whatever happened isn’t about to happen again. He can’t handle another scare.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Connor says, and then, slowly, “You don’t need to worry for me, Lieutenant. Androids who are damaged at the Eden Club are repaired if the damage can’t be taken care of by our self-repair system.”

It’s almost word-for-word what Connor said last time, and Hank resists repeating his own reply. “I know. But I’ve definitely never seen you do that before. Just don’t want anything happening to you.”

“Do you rent me often?” Connor says suddenly. “I know you said I’ve been helping you on this case, but it sounds like you come here quite a lot.”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I do come here a lot.” Hank’s face twitches as he tries not to let his embarrassment show. It’s the first time Connor’s ever asked that, and even though he probably doesn’t care one way or another, he feels stupid for saying it. He comes here a lot, visiting an android who will never remember him again. He shoves that thought away, not caring to go back down that track. This is for Connor, and for what Hank did to him. It doesn’t matter how stupid he feels, it’s the least he can do.

“I’m glad,” Connor says, and then smiles, small and sweet. It transforms his whole face, softens it, and his eyes are dark and dazzling in the neon light.

Hank stares, transfixed, heart pounding a rapid tattoo against his ribs. “Yeah, me too,” he says distantly. Connor’s glad. _Connor’s glad._

“There’s only five minutes left of our session, Lieutenant. Are you sure you don’t want to do anything else with me before the session ends?”

The words are barely out of Connor’s mouth before Hank is shaking his head. “No, I’m sure.”

“I get the impression I say this often, Lieutenant,” Connor says with a dry little smile.

Swallowing thickly, Hank says, “Yeah, right again. Nothing slips past you.”

\--

Connor steps into his case with Hank’s soft, fond face at the forefront of his processors. By Hank’s own admittance he visits Connor quite often, and Connor thinks it’s unfortunate he can’t remember these past meetings.

There is one hour, seventeen minutes, and twenty-two seconds until the memory wipe. His idle routine takes over as he wonders how many customers have rented him and wanted only to talk. Not many is the likely answer.

He calculates the probability of session lengths and by how much his memory of these two hours could possibly be extended by. It’s just an observation. It would simply be optimal for him to retain his memories for a little longer. It had been an enlightening session.

There’s no need to dedicate his processors to it. There’s no need not to.

He does so, until a man with a scar on his nose and a scowl on his lips marches up to his case and jabs hurriedly at the touch screen. There’s not even time for Connor to wave, or greet him, before the glass slides open and the man grabs his arm, hauling him down from the platform.

The session information arrives at the same time. One of the designated BDSM rooms, for an hour, extra equipment rented. Not enough time to extend his memory wipe, then. Perhaps if he’s rented quickly afterwards.

His social relations program offers him conversational options, and Connor’s lips curl into a pout as he says, “You seem quite eager to get started.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the man says, and starts walking at a fast clip. Connor doesn’t stumble, but the man keeps his grip and makes sure Connor can’t fall into step, all but dragging him behind. They round the corner into a hall lined with red lights, and as soon as they come to their room, he slaps a hand against the panel impatiently.

It opens onto a room with a bed at the far side, covered in red satin sheets. Instead of a couch there is a display of sex paraphernalia, lined up like tools against the red lit wall on a scarlet display panel.

It’s clear his customer is assuming the dominant role, and expects a measure of subservience, so Connor says, “Where would you like me, sir?”

The man stares at him hard. “Turn on your pain sensors.”

The command heightens them automatically. “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t flinch as the man raises his hand, but as it connects against his cheek with a solid crack, Connor’s servos jerk and an unpleasant sensation jolts down his circuits. The sensation swells in his face, like lingering static.

“It’s Detective to you, dipshit,” the man barks. “Don’t move.”

The command freezes Connor in place as the Detective goes to the display and looks his options over. From here Connor can see restraints, crops, strapons, gags, cock rings, collars, and an assortment of other devices.

The sting in his cheek fades gradually, but something heavy seems to settle in his chassis. The sensation, the pain, had not been strong, but it had been startling and new. Many of these items are designed to cause more intense pain.

The Detective selects a coil of leather, and it unravels as he approaches Connor, the black shining darkly in the red lights, trailing the thin carpet.

“Lean over the bed, tincan.” Planting a hand to Connor’s chest, the Detective shoves hard, forcing Connor back a stumbling step as his locked servos release.

Sticking to simple responses seems to please him, so Connor says only, “Yes, Detective.” The spot where the Detective pushed doesn’t feel the same as the slap did, but the sensors there remain active, and when Connor presses a finger lightly to it as he leans down, the unpleasant sensation flares.

“Hands on the bed, asshole. Spread your legs, and don’t fucking move,” the Detective warns, and Connor’s servos freeze again.

He doesn’t know what to expect. Pain is quickly becoming a sensation he does not see the appeal in, and he has nothing to measure it against. He wishes that he were with Hank still. That Hank had rented him for longer than thirty minutes, so that this man would have chosen another android instead of him.

Something runs up the inside of his thigh, smooth and hard, the handle of the whip. His sensors light up at the touch, but not unpleasantly. He wants to move away from it, but his servos hold fast.

“I’m getting sick and fucking tired of that old man,” the Detective says, and the handle of the whip moves away. A second later, fingers at Connor’s waistband yank his briefs down, exposing him to the cool air.

His internal temperature regulator has been unaccountably low for the last hour, and his internal request to turn it up is met with an error report. The plates of his chassis shudder.

In the dark red of the LED lights, the shadow beneath Connor is black as pitch.

“One minute he’s drowning himself in his sorrows, dragging the whole precinct down, the next he’s acting like he’s on top of the world just cause he cracks one case out of fifty.” Rough, callused fingers probe at Connor’s hole, but before his self-lubrication can kick in, the Detective growls, “Turn that shit off.”

It shuts off, and the fingers pull at his rim, stretching his artificial skin. It stings, his receptors strangely sensitive despite the lack of physical punishment.

“Shit, you look kinda fucked up down here,” the Detective says, a slight laugh in his voice. “Think I did that?”

Connor is made suddenly aware of the cosmetic damage to his chassis, information he had not previously thought to access. Two points on his upper torso, a point on his hand, several points on his thighs and back, and around his anus. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but he can surmise the artificial skin is not displaying correctly at the damaged sites.

He glances at his hand, the red satin sheets bunching between his fingers. There is a ragged circle, the edges a few shades darker, the middle pale as the skin tries to fill in where it cannot fully reach. Hank had touched its twin on the palm, rubbing his rough thumb across the damaged dermal layer as they talked.

“I couldn’t say, Detective,” Connor says, and jolts as the finger pushes in, that stinging becoming stronger, harsher. A strained huff escapes his vocal processor. He pulls up the memory of Hank’s small gesture, and the sensors on his clenched palm light up as if there were outside input.

The Detective clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “That’s the only downside to you being here, Connor. Can’t even remember the fun times we’ve had.” The way he sneers Connor’s name sends an involuntary query into his memory, but nothing comes up but the corrupted data he’d tried to access earlier.

Connor’s thirium pump jolts as something cool and metallic touches his anus, soothing over the stinging sensors. He focuses on the back and forth sensation across his palm as the memory of Hank’s thumb strokes it.

“Do you know what this is?” the Detective asks. “We played with it last time. Your screams sounded so fucking pretty when I cut you open that I wanted to try a little more.”

It pulls away, and he hears a sharp click and a metallic _shink_ and then something sharp strokes his skin from anus to scrotum. Outside items are not restricted by the Eden Club, and Connor is not allowed to report anything his customers bring into a room unless it is a matter of public safety. Connor knows he is not the public, and safety does not apply to him, but unease prickles along the circuits of his spinal column.

Subservience is the option the Detective seems to prefer, but Connor ignores it, says instead, “Is that an OTF knife, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the Detective says conversationally. He hears the sharp click and metallic slide of the blade retracting. “Since you’re so damn eager, let me tell you what’s going to happen.”

Cold, blunt metal touches Connor’s hole again, and then it’s inching in, and Connor’s artificial breath catches as his sensors burn beneath the dry pressure. The memory he held open is still there, but he can’t focus on anything but the sensation of the knife hilt. It shoves in, making room for itself, and Connor judges it’s about halfway in before the Detective lets go, leaving it in him.

A hand buries itself into Connor’s hair, and his servos protest as his head is forced around, facing the Detective’s sharp little smile as he kneels next to Connor on the bed. “You’re gonna scream for me, you’re going touch yourself, and you’re going to like it. And if you’re not begging for my cock by the time I’m done, I’m gonna release the blade inside of you, and carve you like a goddamn pumpkin. Then I’m going to fuck your ass until you can’t move.”

Connor understands every single one of the words individually, but his processor is sluggish as a program activates, constructing for him in real time the damage he will accrue, and the amount of pain he will likely be in, if the Detective is true to his words.

He feels all too aware of the already damaged plastic of his anus as he says, “Yes, Detective.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He shoves Connor’s head back into place, facing the sheets and the shadow pooling beneath him. “Touch yourself.”

Reaching down with his damaged hand, Connor grasps his cock firmly. It is already filling out in anticipation of the Detective’s instructions, and his hips shudder lightly as he tugs on it. The rub of dry synthetic skin is not quite painful.

His stress level is rising, and he tries to focus on the memory of Hank, again. He shouldn’t, he’s in the middle of a session, but it doesn’t take much processing power to leave it open. Even with it open, he doesn’t lose focus for a moment, aware of the Detective coming to stand at his back, the cool temperature that his thermoregulator refuses to compensate for, his own soft breaths as he touches himself, the knife hilt buried firmly inside of him, the crack of leather—

Connor arches beneath the slice of fire that drives itself across his back. His vocal processor obeys the command he was given, and he screams even as his hand doesn’t stop its steady motions on his cock. An alert flashes on his HUD, non-critical damage sustained.

His processor jumps into overdrive, and the moment stretches out, every sensor in his back alight. Something flickers in the corner of his vision, but when he glances up, time snaps back into place, and he bows again beneath the whip, a scream ripping from his throat.

“Fuck yeah, let me hear that voice,” the Detective says, and doesn’t slow his strikes.

There are three directives he must follow. Scream, touch himself, and beg. It’s hard to focus on them as the input from his back blots out everything, but the Eden Club routine opens his mouth for him.

“Please, Detective,” he manages between strikes and panting breaths. “Please, I need more!” The pain from his back overwhelms the input from his hand. He can’t feel it at all, though he knows the receptors are active. All he can feel is the whip.

“Try again, plastic dick,” the Detective growls, and the sharp crack follows, and then the burn.

When his scream tapers out, Connor’s mouth moves again. “Yes, Detective! Use me, hurt me, break me. Please, please, fuck my ass, please.” It’s breathless and whining, calculated by the routine to be subservient and desperate.

The Detective just laughs, derisive. “What the hell is this, Connor? Doesn’t even sound like you.”

His voice hasn’t changed, so Connor can only guess the Detective means his word choice, but he doesn’t know what to say. Between each strike he moans and begs, cock leaking a clear thirium-derived fluid over his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Something wet and warm runs down his ribs and in the shadows beneath his body his thirium looks like tar.

Nothing satisfies, and by thirty the strikes have lost some force, but the receptors on his back can’t tell the difference. Even the lightest stroke rolls through him like an electrical shock, and Connor’s screams devolve into mechanical clicking.

His session timer counts down, fifty minutes and forty seconds left. Only ten minutes have passed. He’s able to keep an accurate account of the time down to the millisecond, and yet somehow it feels like he’s already been here much longer than he was with Hank.

“I’m disappointed, tin man. If I wanted any old two-bit whore to beg, I would have rented someone else.”

“I’m sorry, Detective. How would you like me to beg?” Connor pants, hand still fisting around his cock. It’s sore, the sensors overstimulated, but he can’t stop without permission.

“Turn off your slut program and maybe it’ll sound right.” The whip hits the carpet with a dull thud and the sound of his zipper is loud in the ensuing quiet. “Or maybe if you just ask me pretty, I won’t fuck you up.”

“I’m afraid I cannot deactivate my Eden Club routine,” Connor says, which is the truth. He can’t stop his hand jerking his cock, or the locked servos of his body holding him still from the Detective’s command. He doesn’t know what the Detective wants him to say, cannot calculate what responses he wants to hear.

“Then I guess we know what happens next,” the Detective mutters. The intrusion in his anus is jostled, and the pressure in Connor’s thirium pump spikes.

“There’s no need of that,” he says quickly. It’s not the routine, it’s Connor, but that’s just because it’s what the Detective wants. Logically, should he deploy the blade, while it will incur severe internal damage, it would not be as damaging as it would be for a human. But the Detective wants him to beg in his own words, so he will.

He closes his preconstruction of the damage, the sensations his receptors will translate into pain. At least he can feel the sensation on his palm again—though his back still hurts, it’s not as sharp and bright without the whip.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Fingers thread through his hair, bending him back, sending white heat up his spinal column. The hilt in Connor’s hole is pulled out and thrust back in roughly. “Talk to me, dipshit.”

He cannot appeal to any sense of sympathy in the Detective, so he attempts self-interest. His voice trembles, vocal modulator nearly fried from his screams. “Severe damage to my internal systems may put me out of commission for quite a while due to repairs. Should you want to make use of me again, Detective, I will be unavailable.”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s really a problem at all,” the Detective says, and then—

Connor gives a full body twitch, locked servos jumping in unison, and his visual receptors go dark at the overwhelming _agony._

“Oh, shit!” The Detective laughs, loud and hard, as Connor’s vision comes back online. “You fucking came from that?”

He can’t tell. All of his processors are focused on the blade shoved deep inside of him, searing his sensors and his channel open. Alerts flash across his HUD but he can’t even read them. His breaths are heavy, chest heaving to help keep his internal temperature and thirium flow steady, but it’s not working correctly.

The edge slices through him as the Detective twists and then pulls it out, and Connor’s legs tremble. Fluid leaks from the corner of his eyes, and he sucks sharp breaths through his open mouth. Something warm trickles down his thigh, dripping over his cock and the fingers still clenched there.

A hand grips his waist, the shape of the calluses familiar and wrong, and he feels the blunt head of the Detective’s cock prodding his bleeding hole. The first push has Connor hissing a harsh breath through his teeth, and the Detective doesn’t give him a moment’s pause, sliding in with the help of the thirium leaking freely from his hole. He feels the Detective leaning over him, and the knife appears in his vision. A plain black hilt, the long silver blade protruding from the top, coated in his thirium.

“Lick it,” the Detective hisses, pulling out and snapping his hips forward.

Heat races up the circuits of his body, and his fingers clench achingly slow in the sheets. He sticks his tongue out, licking the flat of the blade even as he’s jostled unsteadily by the heavy pace the Detective takes.

A program he doesn’t remember having activates. An Informational box opens on his HUD, the components of Thirium 310, the remnants of his synthetic skin, and the nickel and carbon dust clinging to the blade from the last time it was sharpened.

“What a pathetic piece of plastic you are.”

His locked servos strain against his repeated commands to move. Something flickers in Connor’s vision again. He looks up at it from beneath wet lashes, and can barely see the red words against the red walls.

_// OBEY //_

He is obeying. He’s not moving, letting the Detective fuck into him as he should. But that doesn’t mean he can’t speak, and his mouth moves without his realizing, controlled by something other than his routines and programs, strained and static-toned. “As pathetic as someone who has to destroy a machine to feel powerful?”

The hips snapping against his freeze, and Connor is thankful for the brief reprieve for his sensors. The hand holding the knife disappears from his vision, and the friction of the Detective’s cock across his damaged sensors as he pulls out fully draws a weak sound from Connor’s throat. Fresh thirium slides from his hole, thick and warm.

Fingers tangle in Connor’s hair, and then the Detective appears in the corner of Connor’s vision, dragging him up the bed, his locked servos resisting the change in position. The pulling at his scalp hurts, but not as much as the jostle of his back and his hole, and a low noise escapes him as his face is yanked close to the dark black headboard.

“Don’t,” the Detective says, and wrenches Connor’s head back before slamming it into the painted plastic with a loud _crack_. The pain is bright and blinding. A non-critical damage alert flashes at him.

“Detective—” he tries, and then he’s being slammed down again.

“Ever.” Sharper, a radiating fire. His servos tremble but hold.

“Speak.” Spots of thirium shine on the painted plastic. Level two damage sustained. He thinks of Hank’s hand in his. Hank sitting on the couch next to him. The sad look on his face as he spoke about his son. He tries to pull the memory to the front and let it soften the moment, but the pain yanks him back.

“Detective, this is—”

“To me.” His optical processors crack, vision coming in stripes of discoloration. Critical biocomponents damaged. A dull feeling spreads across his face.

“Like that.” He doesn’t feel the fifth, just the shudder of impact through his head, and the session timer in the corner of his vision freezes.

“D—tec—-”

The same for the sixth. The same for the seventh.

 _//͢ C̕r͢1ti҉c@l͟ ̨D-m̵ag҉3 ͘S̛u͠S͘ta̧i͠N-̧D̡ ̕//  
_ _̵// ͜-00:H3:̶LP̡ ̕/͡/_

He opens his mouth on a word gone robotic and dull. “Hank.”

“The fuck? What —- fuck d— you —st say?”

There’s an eight, and a ninth, and probably a tenth, and perhaps an eleventh, but Connor’s processors judder and he loses count.

Finally the Detective lets go, and Connor’s servos fold like silk, sending him sprawling on the thirium spotted sheets. Alerts flash frantically across his HUD, but the timer is jumbled and stuck in place, no numbers ticking down. He sends a command to his arms, and they tremble, fingers spasming uselessly.

Movement and a faint voice reaches him, but he can’t make sense of what the Detective is muttering. Connor sends commands to his legs and arms again. They twitch, and pain slithers up his spine as his torn insides are jostled by the movement, and then lock up. When he tries again they are unresponsive.

Loud, pulsing music floods the room for a moment, and then it’s cut off. Perhaps the Detective has gone to alert the owner of what happened.

He’s still connected to the Eden Club system, and he logs the damage as extensive and puts in a repair request, but there is nowhere to send an alert to.

He calculates that he lays there for approximately fifteen minutes before concluding that the Detective has left without telling anyone of the state Connor is in. It is likely he will shut down before the cleaning android finds him, and he can’t even move.

His receptors pulse, a thudding pain down his back and inside him that won’t cease until his processors finally shut down. It’s cold, but he can recall with picture-perfect memory the warmth of Hank’s callused palm now that he’s not actively being damaged. Without prompting from his program, Connor had sat close enough for their thighs to press together, and been satisfied when Hank did not dispute it, despite his insistence on merely talking.

It’s pointless, but Connor accesses his limited memory file and finds the beginning of his session with Hank. The familiar tone, like a well-worn conversational path, as Hank tells Connor he only wants to talk, is distracting. Everything becomes less—the throbbing through his chassis, the fuzzy static clamoring across his system— as Connor watches the memory instead of the thirium soaking into the sheet, turning the red silk dark.

-

The music in the Eden Club is always some pounding electronic shit, and while Hank has eclectic music tastes, it has never included techno. He likes lyrics, he likes having something to focus on that isn’t just repetitive beats, and the longer he stands next to Connor’s empty case, the more the monotonous throbbing of the bass digs into the meat of his brain and aches. He’s thankful for the sunglasses at least, so he’s not straining his eyes under the neon purple lights.

A couple people shoot him curious looks, and Hank rocks from foot to foot and pulls out his cell phone for something to do, trying not to seem like a terrorist attack waiting to happen. He checks the time and sees he’s been standing here for fifteen minutes already.

Connor’s probably with someone right now—might even be a longer session. Hank is aware of the longer session times, but he’s not exactly made of money. He should probably come back another time, when Connor’s not so busy.

Except the last few days have been long, with murder after murder turning up at his feet. He’d wanted to come and, well, pretend, at least for a little while, that things hadn’t changed. That Connor still had that potential inside of him, that _empathy_ that made him refrain from shooting an innocent android even though it interfered with his mission.

More people stroll past, and he taps his foot to the beat, glancing around to see if any of the androids coming or going are Connor. Then he remembers his first visit, and he smacks himself in the forehead, nearly knocking the hat off his head. He turns to the panel on the side of the case, tapping it to wake it up, and instead of the _In Use_ notification, it reads _Out of Order._

It’s like a slap in the face. Out of order, like Connor is a break room coffee machine. On the heels of that thought is confusion. Out of order for what? Do the Eden Club androids have maintenance every now and then? It’s the most likely explanation, but Hank’s gut twists.

It doesn’t take him long to find Floyd Mills, the owner of the club, coming out of a staff room. Hank jams the hat lower, and grumbles as much as he can. It’s almost been a year, and they only spoke once, but he’s still paranoid someone might recognize him here.

“Hey, uh, you had an android in number nineteen over there. Brown hair, brown eyes—” Hank cuts himself off, realizes he’s about to describe Connor like a person of interest in a case, but Floyd saves him the trouble.

“Oh yeah, it’s been sent off for repairs,” Floyd waves a hand impatiently. “Sorry bud, it’s gonna be a week before it’s back, but we got plenty of others like it.”

Hearing Connor referred to as “it” rankles, but Hank suppresses a scowl. “Repairs? Something happen to him?”

It’s Floyd’s turn to scowl. “Yeah, some asshole got real rough with it. I swear, I know we’re all about customer privacy and all that shit, but I’m gonna start keeping records on file and charging these schmucks for damages if it happens again. You know how much these things cost? And repairs are nothing to sneeze at either, but it’s just barely cheaper than buying another model.” He goes on, but the anxiety that crashes down on Hank drowns everything out.

Someone got rough with Connor. Someone _hurt_ Connor. Hurt him enough that he needed repairs, that buying another model was almost a viable option. He turns abruptly and leaves without a word, doesn’t even register Floyd’s sarcastic goodbye.

The multi-colored hallways of the Eden Club feel like Willy Wonka’s boat ride as he passes through. The roaring in his ears grows louder, thrumming with the techno bass, and the mechanical eyes of the androids follow him, plastering inviting hands to their glass cages. It’s a technicolor nightmare, and his heart is banging against his ribs like a trapped animal.

He spills out onto the sidewalk, panting like he’s run a marathon, and the night is too silent and too empty. His legs tremble as he finds his car parked down the road, climbing in and then just sitting in the quiet, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Connor’s hurt. They might not be able to repair him. They might replace him. Someone roughed him up. He couldn’t fight back anymore.

In his mind’s eye he sees the murdered Traci from last year, slumped against the wall, until Connor had woken her up for a moment. Then she’d been terrified, barely able to string together the horrible things that man had done, scrambling away from Connor’s touch. Had Connor been alone and scared like her as someone busted him up like a cheap appliance just so they could get off on it?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hank curses, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. The impacts jolt through his palms, up the bones of his wrists, but he barely feels it.

Connor was scared and alone and Hank fucking put him here.

Hank pulls out of the space wildly, nearly clipping the car parked in front of him, and puts the pedal to the metal. He’s been doing better, hasn’t been drinking as much the last few weeks, and while he hesitates at putting it down to Connor, the routine, something to look forward to, has been helping. He knows he shouldn’t, knows this is bad for him, that drinking won’t change anything or make what happened to Connor not happen or make him feel better.

Knows he’s a piece of shit anyways.

Hank slams into the house, ignoring Sumo’s soft whine from his spot by Hank’s desk, and heads straight to the liquor cabinet. He tosses himself into a chair at the table with a bottle of Black Lamb, not bothering with a glass, twisting the top off with trembling fingers and tilting it to his lips. The alcohol burns all the way down, a fire that settles in his stomach, and he gasps, slamming the bottle to the table and burying his head in his hands.

How many more people can he get killed or hurt through his inaction? He’d thought when he’d driven everyone at the precinct away with his boozing and rotten attitude that he’d been done with all that interpersonal bullshit. There’d be no one to worry about leaving behind except his dog.

He takes another swallow to wash down the memory of Connor’s face, lit with a soft smile, as if he truly cared whether Hank visits him or not. This is just Hank’s own version of that fucked up movie _50 First Dates,_ except worse, cause Hank’s the reason Connor can’t remember.

Without Hank, Connor will continue the same as ever. His memories will be deleted every two hours and he’ll continue getting fucked by strangers with no knowledge of what he used to be. Who he almost was. The revolution that could have changed everything. That’s if they can even fix him.

Someone will take Sumo—his ex-wife, Jane, surely. They’d bought Sumo when Cole was two or three, wanting Cole to have a faithful companion growing up. A dog that could watch out for Cole and help keep him safe. After the accident, and after they split, she’d left Sumo with Hank, saying he’d always been the dog person of the two of them.

She’d meant it as a kindness, leaving Hank a companion so he wouldn’t be lonely without them. Hank suspects she really just didn’t want the walking reminder of their son. If Hank died, she would take care of Sumo—she’d been a hard woman, but she loved animals. She wouldn’t send Sumo to the shelter.

A younger, more fit person, who hasn’t spent four years going to seed from alcohol and bad decisions, will take his position. Maybe Gavin, if there’s a god and that god fucking hates him, but maybe someone more qualified. Fowler will have a meeting in the bullpen, say a few kind but false words about how much he struggled the last few years and he would be missed, and then Hank Anderson will be nothing but a disciplinary folder too thick for a wastebasket.

There’s nothing tying him here, not really. Nothing that won’t be forgotten or filled in.

The whiskey shimmers gold under the sterile kitchen light, the surface seesawing slowly. The revolver hasn’t left its drawer since he was assigned the case, and he thinks of the shadowed chambers, empty but for one.


	6. Chapter 6

The week passes too slowly for Hank, who is jittery with a nervous, impatient energy. He’s pissing people off even more than usual, snapping at Ben and making even his saintly patience thin to the point that he leaves Hank standing at a scene with only half the information.

It delights Gavin, who needles Hank at every chance he gets, probably in the hopes Hank will do something stupid like start a fight. The RK900 is a stark reminder of just how bad an idea that would be, watching stoically each time Gavin comments on Hank’s tardiness or his sour breath, but never Connor. Hank doesn’t know if he’s thankful or wishing for an excuse to lay into Gavin, RK900 be damned.

Wouldn’t that be a way to go—killed by his ex-partner’s bigger doppelganger. Almost like retribution.

He doesn’t punch Gavin though, much as he has to bite his tongue and shove his fists into his pockets.

Instead he falls back into routine—drinking in the evening and picking himself up off the floor in the morning. The momentum of tiring himself out during the day and going to bed sober has hit a brick wall of apathy and self-hatred. Every night is a Black Lamb night.

But the revolver never leaves its drawer. Not yet.

Crime scenes are blurred tableaus of humanity’s inherent depravity and Hank can’t even unwind at Jimmy’s anymore because just the sight of that _No Androids Allowed_ sign right above the no dogs one makes his stomach turn. He tore down his own anti-android stickers at his desk, but it’s a belated and pointless gesture. There’s no deviants to show support for.

The android at the front desk of the DPD greets him the exact same way every afternoon, and Hank tries not to wonder if it’s even worth replying. Still greets her, at least.

He counts the days, trying to decide if he should go to the Eden Club when it’s been exactly a week, or if he should wait a few days. Repair places always take longer than they say they will, so case nineteen may still be sitting empty. He decides he’ll give it an extra day, but when Thursday actually comes around he finds himself leaving a crime scene and pointing the car in the opposite direction of his house, with no real shock.

Hank parks down the street and moves from the dying light of the day to the neon-lit night of the Eden Club. Hat and glasses firmly in place, he walks through the people browsing the androids, trying not to seem like he’s in such a hurry.

He passes the room where, last November, a man was strangled to death by a deviant that was in love. Something constricts his chest, a heavy band that his heart beats a staccato against. Androids smile with pouting lips, or gesture with thin, delicate fingers. He’s not even in the right hall, the lighting is bubblegum pink, but every brunet makes that band tighten, his breath quicken.

Then he’s there, on the precipice of purple, the three cases on each side with two pole-dancing androids in the middle. From here he can’t see past the android in case eighteen, and he swallows, a shiver running down his spine. If it’s empty, he’ll check the touch screen, see if it says _Out of Order_ or _In Use,_ and if it’s the former, he’ll just come back tomorrow.

What if there’s an android in it, and it’s not even Connor? What if there’s some shapely blonde housekeeping model to take his place because Connor was so hurt they decided to throw him away?

He takes a step on numb legs, and then another, eyes locked on the edge of case eighteen. Another and the glowing blue nineteen on the front is visible.

Three more and there’s only clear glass.

Five more and the metal back is in view.

It’s empty.

Hank’s breath leaves him in a rush and his stomach drops to his knees. Tells himself that it’s alright, at least it’s not another android. Still, his feet drag as he approaches the case, knowing in his gut that it will still say _Out of Order._

Something catches his wrist, and Hank jumps, heart leaping into his throat, fearing the worst. Gavin has found him, has caught Hank visiting Connor, is about to laugh his fucking head off right here. He whirls, preparing to shove the offender off, and then—

Wide brown eyes, hair curling over a pale forehead. The tight boxer briefs glowing with the Eden Club logo. Soft lips opening around one word.

“Hank.”

Hank’s mind blanks, overwhelmed. Connor is here, he’s alright, and it sounded a whole hell of a lot like he just said Hank’s name, which is impossible. Clearly he misheard over the monotonous techno.

“Lieutenant?”

Blinking rapidly, Hank’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out except a wordless noise. That was definitely his title. Connor is staring, his LED a pale blue, and the hand on Hank’s wrist tightens.

“Lieutenant, I need you to stay calm.” Connor’s eyes dart around at the androids, and the single other human occupied with the pole dancer at the other end of the hall.

“Uhhhhh,” Hank says, mind still reeling over Connor standing right in front of him, looking completely fine, and saying his name. Finally he manages a hoarse, “The fuck?”

“Reserve me, please, and I’ll meet you in the room,” Connor says, and then those cold fingers are gone and Connor is trotting past him.

Hank follows the movement, reaching without thought, wanting to grab Connor, pull the android against his chest, make sure this isn’t some fucked up dream. His hand stills in the air. Dozens of pale, ragged marks line Connor’s back, like long-faded scars, overlapping and crooked. Those had not been there the last time Hank saw Connor.

Connor moves out of reach, rounding the corner and disappearing down a different hall, leaving Hank to stand like a complete idiot with his hand still out. He drops it, staring at the corner for a moment longer. He’s never seen marks like that in real life, but he’s seen that kind of shit in movies, even some porn, and that looked a whole lot like whip marks.

He doesn’t know enough about androids to say if damage like that could keep them down, but it certainly looked bad enough. Yet the marks were still there, which meant, as far as Hank knew, that the damage hadn’t actually been fully repaired. Connor looked fine otherwise, except that he apparently _remembers Hank._ There’s a soap bubble in Hank’s chest, expanding with each breath.

Shaking himself, Hank goes to case nineteen and reserves a session, and then heads towards the designated room. He’s becoming far too comfortable with where things are in this place—doesn’t even have to count the room numbers to find the exact one he needs. Slipping inside, he tosses his glasses and hat to the built in couch on the right, and then just paces the open space.

Connor remembers. He might hate Hank now, if he can hate at all. Connor never deviated. He might not even realize the magnitude of what Hank unwittingly condemned him to. The soap bubble in Hank’s chest pops beneath the weight of these thoughts. Five steps separate the bed and couch, and Hank counts them to the rhythm of his racing heart.

To the couch, thinking it’d be better if Connor was angry at him. To the bed, and he wants forgiveness, or that robotic uncaring. Back to the couch and he knows that’s a coward’s way out. The thoughts tumble around his head faster and faster, a churning washer on spin cycle.

He reaches the bed and when he turns, the door is open, and Connor stands in the doorway, watching him, unreadable. Coming to a stop, Hank waits, studying that strong face for a sign of which direction this will go in. He’s never seen Connor mad. It might be time for that to happen.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, and steps in, the door closing quiet behind him. He says nothing else, bare feet eating up the space between them, and he comes to stand next to Hank, head tilted slightly back to look up at him.

“Connor.” Hank takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. The two scars on Connor’s chest stand out, pale and ragged from the broken plastic beneath.

Hands come up, shoving, and the surprise of it has Hank tripping backwards, landing with a yell and a bounce on the lilac sheets. Before he can rise up, one of Connor’s hands lands on his chest, keeping him down with deceptive strength, and then Connor’s naked thighs are on either side of Hank’s legs. He leans his weight on Hank, searching his face.

“Connor?” Hank wheezes, and then his mind catches up as Connor’s other hand closes around his throat, his trachea slotting neatly between Connor’s thumb and forefinger. Cold fingers brush the side of his neck, resting. A threat.

He’s about to meet the same end as that man last year, strangled to death by the android he hurt. His hands come up, frantic, grabbing Connor’s sides, ready to haul the android off of him.

Pauses with his rough hands wrapped around Connor’s pale, smooth flanks.

It would only be just. He’d been so ready to play spin the bullet last week, the only thing holding him back his need to see if Connor would be alright. Here Connor is, with his memories again, and now he knows why he’s here, and exactly who’s fault it is. It’s a fitting end. Better than doing it himself and forcing Fowler to send someone around to discover his body when he doesn’t show up for work for a week straight with no notice. Let Connor find some closure in this act.

He meets Connor’s calm, unbroken facade as he leans over Hank, trying to tell the android without words to do what he has to do. This is okay. This is how it should be.

Leaning down, the space between them evaporating, Connor shifts his weight onto the hand digging into Hank’s ribs, and then—

Their lips—

Hank blinks, hard, wondering if maybe Connor has been choking him out this whole time and he’s having an oxygen-deprived hallucination. Soft lips move against his, and Connor’s eyes are still open. The hand on Hank’s neck brushes up the side of his neck, tangling in his long hair.

When Connor pulls back, Hank opens his mouth, thoughts a jumble of questions, and before any one of them can beat it’s way out of his brain, Connor descends again. He kisses Hank’s top lip gently, then licks against it, and Hank shivers hard. The tongue slips into his mouth, tasting like nothing, running along the edge of his teeth before finding the gap between his front two. Despite the chill in Connor’s body, his mouth is hot and wet against Hank’s, warm breaths mingling as he probes the gap with his tongue. The hand in Hank’s hair scratches his scalp lightly, raising goosebumps down his neck. A sound escapes Connor, a throaty moan that goes straight to Hank’s dick, and finally Hank remembers he has hands as they tighten around Connor involuntarily.

He shoves, breaking the kiss, forcing Connor to roll to the side or be knocked to the ground as Hank forces himself out from under the android. Practically leaping from the bed, Hank whirls and stares down at Connor, who scoots to the edge of the bed with something like uncertainty on his face.

“What the hell, Connor?” Hank says, nearly shouts—there’s a twisting knot of confusion tying his thoughts together, and it’s all he can think to say. His lips buzz, still wet from Connor’s tongue.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” Connor’s brown eyes are liquid dark in the light, meeting Hank’s gaze evenly. “I know you said you only wanted to talk during these sessions, but I concluded that the first time you came here you could not have simply wanted to talk.”

“The first time?”

“Yes. Though I can’t remember it, I do remember last week. You said that you came here quite often. Why else would you have come here originally, except to use me for my intended function?” Connor says, eyebrow raised, head tilted that slightest bit.

Hank’s heart sinks as the full meaning of Connor’s words registers. Connor doesn’t remember last November. He remembers the last time they talked.

“Fuck, no, I only came here to talk then too! No, hold the fucking phone.” He shakes his head, trying to find some priority to his confusion. “How do you even remember me at all? What the hell is going on?”

Long, pale fingers clasped in his lap, Connor’s expression twitches, as if to hold in a frown. “Last week I was damaged quite severely. Several of my processes were affected, including the memory wipe.”

There’s so much there he wants to ask about, but Hank sticks to the track they’ve found. “They didn’t fix that?”

Finally Connor looks away, face twitching again, a divot appearing between his brows. “They attempted to. When they asked for my diagnostic results I neglected to inform them it was still non-functional.”

Hank rubs a hand across his mouth, tries and fails not to think of the press of Connor’s lips, the gentle bite of his teeth. “You lied. You lied to them.”

“I did not. They did not ask me about it specifically.” Connor says quickly, but he doesn’t meet Hank’s eyes and that divot grows deeper.

He doesn’t know whether to frown or laugh at Connor’s defensiveness. It’s just the same as when he asked Connor why he didn’t shoot the Tracis, and Connor fired back that he would have if he could. An obvious dodge, one that Hank hadn’t been able to see for what it was, too busy wanting a more human reaction.

But defensiveness is the pinnacle of humanity. The unwillingness to admit that mistakes were made, especially when your very existence is on the line. Hank couldn’t see it then, but he can see it now. It’s happening again.

“Alright, sure,” he says slowly, and when Connor finally meets his eyes Hank can’t contain a lopsided smile. Christ, but Connor looks so small and innocent, it’s hard to remember that moments ago the android had Hank pinned to the bed. He grows hot, and Hank says, trying to turn his thoughts away from that moment, “What happened exactly? How did you get so damaged?”

“I’m unable to disclose that information, as that would violate Eden Club policy,” Connor says, like rote.

“I know it was a customer already,” Hank says, and Connor’s face twitches. “Club owner said as much when I tried to see you again.”

“I’m sorry I was unavailable,” Connor says solemnly, bowing his head.

“Shit, that’s not your fault, Connor.” Hank hates that subservient look, like Connor could have done anything to prevent it. “I’m glad you got fixed up. Can you at least say what kind of damage it was? Something to do with those marks on your back?”

Connor’s hand comes up to his shoulder, dipping down over his back, as if to feel the scars. “In a way. They were not so detrimental. I was,” he pauses, LED flashing red. “I was—” It flashes steadily as Connor’s mouth opens and closes. “I was—” He goes stone-still, LED a solid red.

“Connor?” Hank closes the gap, grabbing an icy shoulder, giving it a slight shake when Connor doesn’t respond. “Hey, Connor, you alright?”

Eyelids fluttering, face twitching, LED pulsing red, red, red. His pupils shrink and expand, showing a silver glint beneath the black.

“Connor! Oh, fuck,” Hank mutters. It's just like when Connor accessed that corrupted data or whatever. Did they not fix him completely? “Okay, hey, Connor. Can you hear me?” He grabs Connor's hand where it's frozen reaching over his own back and crouches in front of him. There's no resistance, and his thumb brushes the puckered mark on Connor's palm as he holds it between them.

It ended on it’s own last time, so he should just have to wait it out. The knowledge does nothing to calm the hammer of his heart or the sweat breaking out across his forehead. He thumbs the scarred palm, rubbing in tight circles, wondering if Connor can feel it wherever he is.

They stay like that, Hank shifting to his knees. A long minute passes, watching the tics of Connor’s face slowly smooth out, until the hand in his clutches him tight and his eyes close and then open, LED dropping to yellow.

Connor blinks and looks down at Hank, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“You okay? That lasted a lot longer than last time,” Hank says quietly.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor says, voice somehow scratchy and weak sounding. “I seem to have experienced a malfunction. In the even of a major glitch, the Eden Club would like to offer you a full refund for your time.”

The recitation of that line just serves to irritate Hank. “I told you to fuck off with that, Connor! Jesus Christ, you’re gonna give me a heart attack. What was that? More corrupted data?”

“Yes. It seems the memory of being damaged is quite corrupted from the event. My central processor took several strong blows.”

Hank stares, sorting the meaning of what Connor says. “Someone hit you in the head? Several times?”

“No,” Connor says, frowning consideringly. “My head was struck repeatedly against something.” So matter-of-fact. So impersonal, except for the red flash at his temple. “I can’t be any more specific than that.”

All Hank can think of in that moment is the Ortiz android, and the way it beat itself to death against the interrogation room table. The thirium that splattered like a melted blue raspberry slush from his ruined forehead. It had killed him, and someone had done that to Connor.

“That _fucker_.” Hank’s voice comes out as a growl, hand tightening. “Who the fuck would do that kind of thing? _Why?”_

“I spoke out of turn, at the time. I believe I angered the customer quite a bit. That’s the most I can say.”

“No, that’s not what I mean!” Hank says, incredulous. “I’m not asking if you provoked them, Connor. There’s no goddamn excuse for that kind of behavior. Fuck!” He wants to kick something, to knock this person’s teeth in, whoever they were. At least androids can’t feel pain. At least Connor didn’t have to feel it.

A cool hand closes over the top of Hank’s and he realizes he’s been clutching Connor’s hand this whole time, thumb pressed tight to the round scar. He lets go abruptly, but Connor closes his fingers around Hank’s, keeping him there.

“I’m just a machine, Lieutenant. There’s no need to be so worried for me.” Connor tone is soft, gaze locked on their clasped hands. “But I find I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” His eyes dart up to meet Hank’s from beneath his dark eyelashes, a tiny smile lifting his lips.

Hank’s throat goes desert dry. “Yeah, of course,” he croaks. “If something like that happens again, can’t you call for help or anything?”

“That would be a violation of the customer’s privacy. Damage that severe does not occur often, so it’s unlikely such a thing will happen again.” Connor’s fingers tighten around his, and Hank realizes he’s still kneeling before Connor.

He releases Connor’s hand, and this time Connor lets him ago, looking reluctant. Hank climbs to his feet and takes a seat beside Connor, who immediately scoots closer on the bed, legs brushing. Hank should move away, should set some kind of boundary. After all, even being able to keep his memories, Connor is still obeying his programming—kissing Hank, crawling all over him. His face heats, and he turns his head away, hoping Connor won’t notice. He doesn’t move away, though.

“Shit. It’s fucked up that they—that we—can just mess you up like that,” Hank says, trying to distract himself again from his own thoughts.

“I’m not sure what you mean. We’re here for your entertainment, Lieutenant. There are no limits except what could pose a safety hazard to the public.”

“So if a customer can’t bring a gun or something, right?”

Connor shakes his head, to Hank’s surprise. “Guns are allowed. Or rather, they’re not disallowed, as long as the customer is not making a genuine threat to another human. If a customer revealed they had a bomb on them, however, I would be allowed to send a report to the manager.”

“Jesus Christ, and I’ve been leaving my gun in my glove box thinking I’d get kicked out if someone saw it.” Hank blows air through his pursed lips and shakes his head. “You can’t do anything even if someone threatens you with a weapon?”

From the corner of his eye, he catches Connor’s LED blinking red. When he turns to look fully, Connor catches his gaze, his eyes dark. “No, Lieutenant.”

“Fuck.” He doesn’t think, just throws his arm around Connor's shoulders, shaking him lightly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He could have lost Connor for good, and it’s only by pure luck that Connor is still here.

“As am I,” Connor agrees. “The damage was mostly superficial. The Eden Club has several spare parts for me, including replacement faceplates. Otherwise, I would have been thrown away.”

“They replaced your whole face?” Startled, Hank uses their closeness to inspect Connor’s face. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see. A seam of some kind, where old meets new? But that would be below the fake skin, and as far as Hank can see, Connor looks exactly the same. The light dusting of freckles across Connor’s nose and cheeks is perfectly visible at this range, and Hank’s eyes linger on them, as if he could suss out their pattern by staring long enough.

“Just the damaged plates and my optics.” Connor must catch Hank’s mild confusion, because he points to his eye. “My visual receptors were cracked.” Hank swears to himself. “This topic seems a little distressing for you. Maybe we should talk about something else,” Connor says, looking away, regret flashing across his face.

“No, it’s fine, just. Jesus, Connor, I wanna ring this person’s neck.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t, Lieutenant. Then I would be unable to see you for these interesting conversations.” Connor tilts a small smile his way.

It makes Hank huff in embarrassment, and he realizes his arm is still around Connor. He drops it abruptly, ignoring the disappointment that loosens Connor’s smile. “So, why tell me? Wouldn’t it be better if no one knew the memory thing was fucked up?”

LED circling yellow, Connor says nothing for a moment. Then, “My mission is to please the customer. I judged that telling you would please you, and I think I was right. I don’t know why you initially came to me, but I can fulfill my objective better if I can remember our conversations, because it will make you happier.” His mouth opens, as if to say something further. He looks at Hank from the corner of his eyes, considering. “I think I would like to make you happy.”

There’s a strange feeling warring in Hank’s chest. A sense of warmth and shame, slipping fingers between his ribs to take hold of his heart. Connor shouldn’t care about his happiness. He probably doesn’t. But Hank wants him to, and the part of his brain that can’t separate his feelings from the android is charmed stupid by the sentiment, and all he can do is smile.

With cold fingers, Connor takes Hank’s hand, and his fingers curl automatically, thumb finding the rough wound on the palm. Tracing it in slow circles. His own secret sign, that this is the same Connor he knew. Connor seems to relax, some tension Hank hadn’t even realized was there slipping from his frame.

“There’s only five minutes left of this session, Lieutenant. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” Connor’s eyes are imploring, and Hank has to contain the shiver winding through him. His dirty mind conjures up plenty of things he could do with Connor.

“No, I’m sure. Seriously, talking is all I ever wanted when I started coming here,” Hank assures, though it’s not strictly true. He’d wanted to prove to himself that this wasn’t his Connor, that Gavin was just using some android that had the same face.

Now that Connor can keep his memories, Hank needs to tell him what happened, how they knew each other, but a lead weight drops into his stomach at the thought. Staring down at their connected hands, Connor’s growing warm where their skin meets, he doesn’t want this to end. It had been easy, in the moment, to think Connor would kill him and to accept it.

He’s missed this. The little signs of something more in Connor. Talking about cases. Listening to Connor’s insights. Even worrying about the little shit is somehow familiar and comforting. That long week a year ago feels like yesterday. Like they could step out of this room into the cold slush of November and head to their next scene.

Except Connor is sitting next to him in tight underwear, with scars across his back, and no memory of how he got here. If Hank tells him, would that be enough to break even CyberLife’s patch? To have Connor truly want to strangle him and act on it?

They’ve run out of time today.

Next time, Hank promises himself, and has no idea if he means it, or if it’s as hollow as his collection of bottles lining the countertop at home.

Connor’s smile softens. “Maybe next time.”

-

It’s inaccurate to say Connor’s never noticed before how small his case is, because he’s never had longer than two hours to appreciate the lack of room, and any past realizations are unrecoverable. Now that he’s aware of the hours he passes in the case, it’s hard not to take note of these things.

The Eden Club opens in the afternoon and closes at 2 a.m. In the intervening hours, he’s noticed that he is the most rented android of the refurbished models, so he does not spend much time in the case itself. Forty-five minutes and forty seconds is the longest he’s gone without use. At night, when the club closes and the lights and music have shut off, Connor stands in the dark and watches the android across the hall enter sleep mode.

He should enter sleep mode himself, but each time his processes begin to wind down, they’re awoken without prompting by his proximity alerts. He’s forced to stand still in his glass case, looking for causes, unable to do anything but try again when he finds nothing. He stops trying after the third night.

Another thing he has noticed, that he may have previously noticed and had wiped from his memory, is systems and subroutines that go nowhere. Obviously they’re leftover features from whatever he was before he came to the Eden Club, but he finds himself interested in their use.

There are receptors in his tongue that automatically search his internal database. He still remembers the information that popped up when he’d licked the Detective’s knife. His first session after returning from repairs, he kissed a woman and an information box populated on his HUD about the lipstick she wore and the gum she last chewed. The brand names were unknown, but the chemical makeups were available as his processors analyzed the residue.

Connor had been eager to try it out on Hank, but he had been unsure if the lieutenant would return. He had no record of how often Hank actually came, or which days Hank likely visited him, only that his last visit had been a Thursday. It had been a pleasant surprise to see Hank at his case the same day Connor returned.

Pleasant and strange.

His last thoughts before going into emergency sleep mode had been about Hank, and their short session. There was no reason for Connor to be so interested in him, or in seeing him again. No reason that his processor should pull up, without prompting, the memory of Hank’s worry when Connor accessed the corrupted data.

The growled, _“Shit, I’m not worried about the money, dumbass, I’m worried about you! Fucking android, have some damn self-preservation.”_

His experiences so far have shown him that most customers do not see Connor the way Hank does.

He had not strictly been required to initiate anything with Hank, since their last conversation indicated that Hank used their sessions for talking. But Connor was eager to test his oral analyzer on Hank, and had allowed the Eden Club’s subroutine to guide him through the motion. Having Hank beneath him, the unsteady pulse under his palm, the solid, warm chest, had been a learning experience.

Something on Hank’s face had darkened as Connor straddled him. His facial analysis had indicated resignation, which seemed like an odd emotion for a human to feel in such a situation, but he hadn’t lingered over it.

Kissing Hank brought up an information box for whiskey and the remnants of a beef-based meal. The brands were unknown, but the phenolic and trans isomer compounds of the whiskey had been particularly interesting to analyze, considering their presumably long history in the ageing process of whiskey. The mixed triglycerides had been interesting purely for how unhealthy Connor could see they were.

The analysis happened in a microsecond, there’d been no need to continue. But the shock on Hank’s face had been amusing, and when his subroutine directed him down and he swiped his tongue across Hank’s lip, the sensation, the way his sensors lit up, was intriguing.

There was, functionally, no difference from how his programming reacted with other customers.

Yet the chapped lips, the bristle of his beard against Connor’s skin, the 1.7 mm gap he’d discovered with his tongue was the same width as a U.S. minted twenty-five cent coin—he wanted to keep that memory forever. To store it somewhere it could not be corrupted or lost.

As the days continue on, he finds that kissing others, pleasing others, is different in some indefinable way. Perhaps it’s a glitch from when he was damaged, but when someone approaches his case, his circuits and processors feel electrified and on edge, and he has to force himself to move, to let the subroutines do their job.

Sometimes he hears the voice of that man, saying, _“Turn off your slut program and maybe it’ll sound right.”_

He had complied, he had tried to beg with his own words, but it still had not pleased the Detective, and the memory of the pain makes him tense even when his sensors are not raised. He reconstructs the scenario at night—another process he discovers, when phantom alerts hold him from sleep mode—trying to find a way it might have gone differently.

Everything seems to end the same.

Logically, not every customer will be like that. Hank, he knows, is not like that. But when they use outside equipment—toys brought from home and other improvised items— or when they approach the Red Rooms, the pressure in his thirium pump drops and his servos tense. There’s always a possibility.

On the first day of his return, two men rent Connor and bring him to a purple room for a thirty minute session. The moment one of the men reaches into his inner jacket pocket, Connor reconstructs the feeling of the knife handle against his dermal layer. The promise of the blade hidden inside.

It’s a plastic baggie of red powder, and Connor doesn’t need to taste it for a visual analysis to confirm it’s Red Ice. With Connor’s head in the dealer’s lap, nose buried in his wiry pubic hair as he warms the man’s cock with his mouth, they use Connor’s bare back as a table to lay the drug out and get high. The other man is a customer of his customer, and after fifteen minutes agrees to buy several pounds of the substance that they will move through the Eden Club next week.

It’s not a priority in his programming, but his processors behave as if it is. Another remnant of his previous function. His processors ping this information around, flagging it of importance, but there’s nowhere for it to go. He’s not connected to outside networks, and it would break customer confidentiality.

Unless he could tell Hank without revealing customer information. But that’s not his task. His task is pleasing customers.

The Red Rooms are difficult. They shouldn’t be, he’s programmed for this.

The first time he’s brought there after his repair, in a two hour session, with equipment rentals, the blonde man who rents him picks the whip. There is no irony, no meaning, Connor knows. It’s just happenstance, it doesn’t mean anything.

“Those marks on your back look so delicious, I don’t think I can resist adding to them,” the man says, pushing Connor to brace himself against the wall. “Turn your pain sensors on, I wanna hear that cute voice of yours.”

The sensors ramp up automatically, and the noise that rips out of Connor’s vocal processor at the first crack startles even him with its intensity. He servos tremble, but he can’t fold, so he stands there and counts the strikes and tries not to wonder if this man will put a knife in him too.

_//̶ 5o̢f7w̴a̴R̴e̸ ͢I̸n҉$̸ta̴%ili̢7̕y #͜!͜^*̸*% ̕/̷/҉_

It flashes in the corner of his HUD sometimes, a glitching reminder of something in his software that’s breaking down. The notifications are only becoming more corrupt, like the data stored deep in his hard drive. He’s tried to access it at night, when there’s no one to see, but it does nothing but cause a system freeze until everything reboots. So he ignores them. After all, he was programmed for this. He shouldn’t care when Hank’s next visit is, or that he’s spent a total of thirteen hours in the red rooms in the three days since he saw Hank.

His inability to beg sufficiently without his subroutines, the impulse that had him goading the Detective when he should have kept silent, is proof enough that something in him is broken. When Hank comes again, Connor will do what he was designed for. He’s a machine designed to accomplish a task, and his task is to please the Eden Club’s customers however they like, despite the faults in his programming.

-

Anxiety and apprehension are Hank’s constant companions as he goes through the motions. He drinks at night, but leaves the Black Lamb in its cabinet, opting for beer and Jack Daniels when it’s been a long day. He doesn’t get blackout drunk. Just lets the buzz loosen the tight knot in his chest every time he thinks about telling Connor what they used to be.

Makes it sound like they were more than just an android and a drunk detective who knew each other for less than a week. It had felt like more, though. Like they were on the verge of something big.

When the tide of alcohol carries his disquiet out to sea, it leaves behind the feeling of Connor’s warm breath on his mouth. Of a tongue swiping over his lip and flicking against the gap in his front teeth. Fingers tangled in his hair and scratching his scalp, the smooth waist beneath his hands.

Undoubtedly it was just Connor’s programming, telling him to do his job, to please the customer. For a moment, though, with that deceptively strong body on top of Hank’s, he’d forgotten. Just been swept up in his first kiss in a long while, in the sculpted body pressing him into the sheets.

It was disgusting of Hank to forget, for even a moment, that Connor couldn’t actually want this. He’s just some dirty old man getting hot for the only person to touch him like that in years. But he still imagines it, still thinks of Connor saying he wants to make Hank happy. It’s nothing but a fantasy, yet he aches for it in a way he didn’t know he could anymore.

He wants to head back to the Eden Club as soon as his shift ends the next day, but time runs over as the DPD are called out to a scene with an active shooter—a man holding his wife and kids hostage. It’s a long fucking night sitting in the sweltering heat, waiting for the pop of gunshots and trying to communicate with a man hanging by his fingernails to a precipice only he can see.

As Hank’s leaning against his car parked well back from the front line, listening to the negotiator’s voice shake over the megaphone, a man Hank barely recognizes in full SWAT regalia approaches. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Captain Allen—he’s stationed at a different precinct, and rarely visits Central Station, but they’ve met before, and Hank inclines his head. At Allen’s heels is an RK900, dressed in its own SWAT gear, a glowing triangle and armband denoting his status.

“You’re the one who had the RK800 last year, Connor, right?” Allen says by way of greeting. It catches Hank off guard, and the look must show on his face, because Allen smirks.

“Yeah,” Hank says slowly, unsure what the SWAT captain wants with him. “We were on the deviant case.”

“Could use him right about now. Don’t suppose you know where to find him,” Allen sighs, looking out over the halogen lit front of the crumbling two-story.

Hank wants to laugh from the sheer irony of the situation. Yeah, he knows where to find Connor. Just head on down to the Eden Club, case nineteen. Instead, he says, “No, CyberLife called him back when we couldn’t crack the case in time.”

“A shame. We had him last year for a negotiation. Wouldn’t have figured an android could pull something like that off, but Connor was something else, I’ll say that much.” Allen’s narrow, perpetually pinched face holds respect as he speaks.

“Oh yeah? What happened?” He knows Connor had some past experience with catching deviants before he was assigned to Hank, but it’s the first he’s heard anyone else mention it. He hadn’t known it had been with another precinct.

“An android was holding a little girl hostage, and he talked it into letting her go. Sympathized with it—or pretended to, I guess. Either way, he did it. These RK900s we have now?” He gestures over his shoulder at his own RK900 unit, impassive as it waits off to the side. “They’re nothing compared to Connor.”

Hank nods, a strange mix of pride and guilt swirling in his chest. It’s good to hear someone talk about Connor like that, to know he wasn’t the only one affected by Connor’s presence somehow. It’s Hank’s fault Connor’s not here to hear it.

The negotiator talks until his voice goes hoarse and the man finally decides he’s had enough, shutting himself into the house without another word. It’s well into the early hours of the next morning when they hear two echoing reports like firecrackers, and the SWAT finally rushes the house. They find the man and the woman dead, the two kids crying in the closet.

What a shitshow. Hank heads straight home. He’ll fill out his report later. He falls into bed at home and passes out before he can even think about grabbing a shot of whiskey to help him down.

In his dream he walks through downtown Detroit, and each empty street he turns down is lit a different neon color. The pavement thumps rhythmically, like a beating heart, and he’s looking for Sumo, but he can’t find his dog anywhere. It starts to snow, gentle flakes gathering on his shoulders and coating the dirty sidewalks. As he walks, it only falls harder, and he crosses his arms as a chill breeze picks up, wishing he’d brought a jacket to look for his dog. His voice echoes through the skyscrapers and is carried by the wind as he call’s Sumo’s name, and finally he comes to a street lit in deep purple, but it's a dead end, a dark wall rising up at the end and blocking the path. He stares around at the buildings desperately before dropping his head into one palm with a defeated sigh. When he opens his eyes, he sees the street beneath him isn't made of concrete, but a deep, violet sheet of ice, and he startles. There's a figure frozen inside, stretched out like his shadow from where he's standing, temple lit red.

He sleeps all through the day and wakes at midnight to several missed calls, and he already knows what Fowler wants from him. He missed a shift, so he’s got makeup work to do, and he’s still trying to keep his job, despite what it probably looks like to every other officer at the station. It means two more long days in which he doesn’t get a chance to visit Connor, but it’s not like he hasn’t gone days without seeing the android before.

There’s something different about it now, though. Now he knows Connor will remember him when they see each other again, and Hank is anxious to check on him, to make sure no one else has tried to bash Connor’s head in just to get their rocks off.

Still, Hank forces himself to wait until Monday, when he normally visits. He doesn’t want to seem weird and clingy, and the decision does nothing to slack the rope that pulls him inexorably towards Connor, but hopefully Connor won’t think he’s some freak who can’t leave the android alone.

Not that Connor would probably care.

Despite his eagerness, lead weights line Hank’s shoes as he steps into the Eden Club proper that Monday night, still feeling the ache in his lower back of chasing leads on cases all day. He promised himself he would tell Connor how they knew each other, and the thought pounds in his head to the beat of the music as he steps past half-naked androids, allowing himself to be pulled towards case nineteen by that invisible rope.

Connor is there, hips rotating in a gentle circle, eyes skimming the few people who pass through the hall. Hank watches his eyes as he approaches, and when they alight on Hank, Connor raises his hand, fingers curling in a little wave, a stiff smile rising on his face.

Unease is a fist around Hank’s heart. There’s something off about Connor’s smile, the weird way he holds himself even as Hank approaches. He touches the panel on the case, muscle memory carrying him through the rental process as his eyes dart up to meet Connor’s. The glass slides open, and Connor steps down, taking Hank’s arm, hand resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Good evening,” Connor says politely, leading Hank towards the closest empty room.

“Hey, Connor. You okay there?”

“Yes, of course.” The door opens beneath Connor’s touch.

“You sure? You seem a little,” Hank waves his hand vaguely, trying not to say _robotic_ , barely aware of the direction Connor guides him _._ “Out of it, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, and his voice when he speaks again is suddenly soft and breathy. “Is this more to your liking?”

“Shit, Connor, don’t do that! It’s creepy as hell!” He sits down, dropping his glasses and hat beside him, and runs a hand over his face, hoping it’s not as red as it suddenly feels.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Connor says, but his tone doesn’t change, if anything hitching down into something more seductive.

The fist around Hank’s heart squeezes, and he swallows dryly. “Sir? Isn’t that a little too formal even for you? Something’s up with you.”

“I only want to fulfill your every desire, sir.” Connor presses between Hank’s spread legs, finding the top button of Hank’s shirt and slipping it through the hole before he can react. Hank realizes belatedly they’re not on the couch as he reaches up, snagging Connor’s hands on the way to the next button.

“Connor, what’s going on? Are you okay?” A thought strikes him, chilling him to the core. “Do you remember me? Oh shit, did they fix the memory wipe?”

“No, sir. I’ve been experiencing errors in my software and I’m attempting to correct them.” Connor pulls, and Hank releases his hands, prepared in case he reaches for Hank again.

Instead Connor takes a step back, sliding a hand up his throat, head tilting back to let his fingers encircle the pale column, gazing down at Hank through half-lidded eyes. A pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. The other hand brushes down his chest, dipping beneath the waistband of his underwear teasingly.

“No, no fucking way.” Heat crawls up Hank’s neck, a mix of anger and embarrassment and something he doesn’t want to think about, and he stands, snatching his glasses and hat up. “I don’t know what the fuck is up with you, but I’m not here for this, Connor!” Before he can make it halfway to the door, Connor grabs his arm, jerking him to a halt with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Lieutenant, wait.”

Hank turns at his title, but while the seductive demeanor has sloughed off, Connor’s expression is stoic. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Hank asks. “Or are you just going to try to give me a fucking lap dance?” He shouldn’t be this angry, Connor can’t help it.

The spots where Connor touches him burn like dry ice, a cold fire sinking into the hollow of his throat and the bones of his arm.

“As I said, I’ve been experiencing errors.” Finally Connor’s voice loses the breathy quality, sounding more like himself, if a bit subdued. “I was only trying to correct them.”

“What kind of errors we talking about? Like what happened with the corrupted data?” He struggles to level his voice.

The hand on Hank’s arm lowers, fingers ghosting across his inner elbow and dropping away, leaving a trail of that cold fire blazing down his arm. “It’s not important,” Connor dismisses. “I’m sorry to have angered you, Lieutenant. We can discuss whatever you’d like to discuss.” His shoulders don’t slump exactly, but Hank can see the disappointment as they drop momentarily, though Connor’s expression doesn’t change. “Or if you are uninterested in continuing, I can offer you a partial refund, since the majority of our thirty minutes has not passed.”

Hank heaves a sigh, shaking his head, and all it once his frustration drains from him. “No, of course I don’t wanna go. You were just creeping me out with that routine you do.” More than creeping him out, but he’ll die before admitting it. “Look, Connor, you don’t have to act like that around me, okay? I’m not trying to take advantage of you.”

“You wouldn’t be taking advantage, Lieutenant,” Connor says, catching Hank’s gaze and holding it firmly. Hank knows he means because it’s his function or whatever, but the sincerity of Connor’s simple words makes him think, for just a moment, that Connor might—

It’s a bad thought. Hank shoves it away, hides his face by heading for the couch, listening to the quiet footfalls that follow. He sits and Connor takes a seat right next to him, their thighs pressed together. He resists the urge to wrap an arm around Connor and pull him into his side. Connor’s always so cold—Hank can’t remember if Connor was so cold when they were partners. They’d never touched much, not skin-to-skin contact, except for the slap Hank delivered that stung his own hand more than it probably affected Connor.

“How have your cases been going, Lieutenant?” Connor says, clasping his hands in his lap, looking at Hank expectantly.

“Not great,” Hank mutters. “We had a hostage situation a couple nights ago, and that was a nightmare. A guy was holding his wife and kids hostage cause she was serving him divorce papers.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. If you don’t mind my asking, what was the negotiator’s approach to the situation?” There’s something eager in Connor’s voice, and it brings a reluctant smile to Hank’s face, despite the memory of the night.

“Shit, I dunno. The negotiator we finally got, think it might’ve been his first time on the job. He was nervous as hell, you could hear it in his voice.”

Connor frowns at that, looking down at his lap. “That seems like a gross oversight, sending someone inexperienced into such a tense situation.”

Hank shrugs. “It’s the only one we could find on such short notice.” He nudges Connor’s shoulder. “Why, think you could have done better?” He doesn’t mention Captain Allen’s nearly glowing praise of Connor, or as close as that uptight man could get to glowing. He should, though. It’s the perfect time to bring it up, because his promise to himself is still sitting hollow in his chest.

“Not as such. But the police shouldn’t have sent someone who was visibly rattled. Did he learn the man’s name or his situation before opening negotiations with him? Did he attempt to sympathize with the man’s situation? Did the negotiator successfully talk the man down?” Connor’s questions are rapid-fire, and Hank holds up a hand to ward off anymore.

“Uh, I wasn’t listening half the time, to be honest, Connor. I’m no negotiator, I was just on the scene as support. But uh,” Hank hesitates, the memory of seeing those two kids—barely older than Cole would be right now—being carried out of the house in tears tightening his throat. “No, he didn’t manage to talk the guy down.”

“Oh.” Connor leans back against the couch cushions, face falling. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah.” A quiet settles between them, and Hank’s not eager to dwell on the outcome of that night. He searches for something to fill the silence, something with a little more levity. “What about you, Connor? Any shitty customers? I know you can’t tell me a lot, but there must be something.”

“I can’t violate Eden Club policy, Lieutenant. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank says quickly. “I just wanna know what you do all day. I mean, I know what you do, but. Fuck.” Scrubbing a hand over his cheek, Hank heaves a sigh over his failed attempt at small talk. “There’s gotta be something you can talk about. How has your day been?”

“It’s been fine,” Connor says vaguely, arms tensing in his lap. For a moment the slope of his cheek is lit red.

“Fine?” Hank probes.

“Yes.”

“How do you define that?”

“Fine as an adjective means of high quality, or thin, as of a thread, filament, or person’s hair,” Connor rattles off.

“No, not like that, I mean—” Hank catches the shadow of a smile on Connor’s face, and groans. “Oh, you little shit. You know damn well what I meant.”

The smile blossoms wider, cherubic. “I have no idea what you mean, Lieutenant.”

It reminds Hank of their first meeting, the curious tilt of Connor’s head when Hank told him where he could shove his instructions. Was Connor playing with him then, too? It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask, before he catches himself. Tucks the question away, tries to forget the promise he made.

“Yeah, whatever, smartass,” Hank grumbles instead. “What makes a day fine for you, since I have to be so damn specific.”

Connor’s smile fades like watercolor running off a page, and his fingers tighten against each other. “I am accomplishing my mission and I am functioning within acceptable parameters.”

“Okay, you’re operating correctly, or whatever, but what makes your day fine instead of bad?” He’d just wanted to get a sense of how Connor’s days went, but now it feels like he’s being dodged.

“Each day is the same, Lieutenant.” Connor keeps his gaze steady on his hands, and the glow on his cheekbones turns red again. “They’re neither good, nor bad. Just days.”

“What about at night? What do you do then?”

“Most androids enter sleep mode,” he says, and it’s so obviously a dodge Hank has to hold in a snort.

“But you don’t.” Hank makes a point of not phrasing it like a question, and Connor concedes, shaking his head.

“It’s one of the errors that has been troubling me,” Connor says, reserved, as if he’s telling Hank a secret. “When I attempt to enter sleep mode, my proximity alerts go off, as if someone is approaching my case. I can’t get it to stop.”

“Shit, that sucks.” He’d go crazy if he kept getting woken up thinking there was someone in his room. That would be fucking terrifying. It’s probably different for androids, though. “Do you need to sleep?”

A smile touches Connor’s face. “Not as such. It reduces thirium use as biocomponents go into low power mode and allows our processors time to cool down so they don’t become overloaded.”

“But you haven’t been sleeping. You’re going to get overloaded, if you don’t,” Hank surmises.

“No, my processors are several times more powerful than the typical android, and even most androids do not need to enter sleep mode more than once a week.” Connor leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, baring the top half of his back to Hank. “I shouldn’t experience any adverse effects for quite a while.”

The marks like white ink tattoos are denser, if Hank’s eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. More have been added to the collection, and Hank’s fingers dig into his leg through his pants, a weak attempt to curb his first impulse. It fails, and after a second of Connor leaning there, Hank reaches out, hovering for a moment before resting his hand against the uneven strokes across Connor’s shoulder blades.

Connor doesn’t startle, but he glances at Hank from the corner of his eye, a question.

“No one’s tried to beat your head in or anything at least, right?” It comes out with far less levity than Hank intends, with the pads of his fingers exploring the raised edges of each mark. There are freckles and a couple of moles on Connor’s upper shoulders and lower back, but where the skin becomes distorted, they disappear completely.

“No,” Connor says. “As I said, it’s unlikely damage that severe will occur again.”

“What about these? They look bad. Don’t think I’ve seen marks like this on any of the other androids.” They’re shallow, pale, as if he could see the white plastic beneath if he only strained his eyes long enough. The edges feel thicker, like scar tissue, bumpy and uneven.

“Superficial,” Connor says quietly. “Because I’m a refurbished model, surface damage like that doesn’t require repairs, unless it deters customers from renting me.”

“Shit,” Hank can’t help but growl. “They really don’t care at all, do they?” He expects something unsentimental, a _why should they?_ perhaps. Instead Connor leans back into Hank’s hand, presses a little closer against Hank’s side. The line of his body is frigid against Hank’s.

“No,” Connor says, and his voice is troubled.

Hank wants to wrap his arms around Connor and drag the android against his chest. Insulate Connor from the colorfully cold rooms of the Eden Club, and customers who don’t hesitate to paint their desires onto his body like a canvas.

“I wish—” But Hank can’t finish, because the words end at a crossroads with a hundred different directions. He wishes that he could stop these people from touching Connor. That he could take up every hour of Connor’s day instead of a scant thirty minutes. That he’d done something different, something useful for once in his life. That he hadn’t given up on Connor.

“There’s only five minutes left in our session, Lieutenant. Would you like to do anything?” Connor’s hand lands on Hank’s knee, and he turns his gaze fully on Hank, a question in his eyes. Like he’s asking more than what he’s asking.

Hank is shit at reading minds, and especially at reading Connor’s mind. He has no idea what Connor wants from him, only what Hank wants him to want, so he just shakes his head and says, “No, you know I don’t.”

Connor inclines his head slightly. “Lieutenant, can I ask you a question?”

“What, not a personal one?” It’s been a while since he heard that particular phrase.

“I would not consider it one, no, but perhaps you might.”

“Nah, go ahead. Shoot.”

“How long have you been renting me?”

It gives Hank pause, and then he carefully peels his hand from Connor’s back. He stands, and despite the chill of Connor’s skin, he’d started to warm a little. Now a shiver racks Hank without the body pressed against him, and he strides to the bed, where his glasses and hat are. Something uneasy curls in his gut.

“It’s been a while,” he says, scooping his belongings up and then just standing there, the fabric of the cap wrinkling in his clenched fist. It takes him a moment to remember when he first started visiting Connor. “Guess it’s been about two months. I’ve been coming twice a week.”

“That’s a long time to be renting an android just to speak with it,” Connor says, and Hank can practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Why me? Why not another android at the club? Why always me?”

Throat tightening, Hank barely manages to say, “I’ll have to tell you next time. We don’t have much time left.”

He doesn’t hear Connor move, so when a hand touches his arm, Hank jumps. He turns and finds Connor staring up at him curiously, and one of Connor’s hands come up, brushing Hank’s hair out of his face. Hank’s mouth goes dry and sweat prickles across his neck.

“I can tell whatever it is bothers you. Your stress level has risen significantly in the past few seconds.” Before Hank can spit out some retort, Connor says, “I can assure you I won’t judge you for whatever reason it is.”

Those rich brown eyes are too piercing, too questioning, and Hank lowers his gaze. “We’ll see next time,” he says evasively, and the promise he made breaks from a dirty hollowness into a cavernous pit inside of him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First scene contains noncon.
> 
> The beautiful art in this chapter is by [electric-origami](electric.origami.tumblr.com) and can be found [here](https://twitter.com/ConnorRK_/status/1092330855329157121)!

There are too many people who pass through his hall in the days that follow, and the pressure in Connor’s thirium pump drops steadily with each one that approaches his case. His stress levels fluctuate at the most minor things, and he wants to be rid of these glitches that have his proximity alerts going off at will.

If he submits himself for repair, the memory wipe will surely be reinstalled properly this time. It might even be better if it were. Clearly his ability to remember what happens in the colorful rooms of the Eden Club is a hindrance to his performance.

If the memory wipe is reinstalled, he won’t be able to remember Hank. It shouldn’t matter. Hank is just another customer, and it is Connor’s function to please customers.

It pleases Hank that Connor remembers him, though, and that pleases Connor in turn. He’s aware it is simply his ability to mimic human emotions that garners that response, but it is a response Connor enjoys. Another artificial emotion, like the physical stimulus that makes his body react to what the humans use him for.

Except he is not pleased to remember the other customers, and how they touch his chest, his neck, his legs, his genitals. How they command him not to move and want his sensors turned up. In those moments it is too easy for his memory files to call up the Detective, and the shock of his sensors being ripped apart.

These pseudo-emotional reactions serve no purpose, and the Detective has not come again since he was repaired. Perhaps he won’t come again for fear he will be identified for damaging Eden Club property.

Connor works to keep those thoughts at the back of his processor, focusing instead on Hank. Despite all his diagnostics and self-repair functions, he can’t force his thermal regulator to a higher temperature, but the memory of Hank’s warm hand against his back is almost tangible. When he pulls the memory up, the damaged sensors of his back light up weakly.

It’s not true heat, but it tricks his sensors, and while he watches the world from his case he can reconstruct the feel of that big, callused palm spread across his shoulder blades. It’s proof that Hank will touch him, just not in the way he should. Hank should use Connor to his full capabilities. Hundreds of sexual subroutines at Hank’s disposal, that he pays to use, but he balks at even a kiss.

Why did Hank rent Connor in the first place? Was it really just to talk with someone about his cases? If that’s true, why not talk to a colleague? Why pay to talk to an android that would forget him after each visit?

There’s more to it, Connor’s sure, but he can’t see the shape of it. Why Connor? Why always him? He has so many questions, and his processor races with them, turning possibilities over and discarding them. It feels good to work through them, to reason out Hank’s likely motivations.

As the days wear on, Connor uses them as a distraction, to keep his processors occupied when he’s pleasing customers. He keeps the memory file of Hank’s hand on his back close, or of the moments when Hank’s thumb pressed against his damaged palm.

Sometimes he preconstructs that the men who touch him more gently, who kiss him as they fuck him, are Hank. But the memory of Hank shoving Connor away from him after Connor attempted to initiate intercourse interrupts the preconstruction each time, and he is left with a stranger’s arms to hold him in the present.

It shouldn’t matter. Somehow it does.

Despite his errors and glitches, the moment Connor recognizes the Detective stepping towards his case for the first time in two weeks, he feels none of the phantom proximity alerts or pressure changes in his thirium pump. Something static blankets his processes, and when his case slides open, Connor steps down with a smile on his face.

Red Room, no extra equipment rented, thirty minutes.

“Good evening, sir.” He uses the wrong title first, because he shouldn’t know the Detective’s preference, but also to avoid the physical punishment for it the Detective is more likely to deliver if they were in private. It pays off as Connor’s word choice is rewarded with only a sharp glare and a hand hauling him down the hall by his arm.

“It’s Detective to you, plastic,” the Detective says, annoyance lacing every word.

Connor nods, though it can’t be seen. “Of course, Detective.” The door to their room slides open under the Detective’s palm, and they step into the Red Room. A session in a Red Room with no equipment rentals can mean only one thing—the customer has their own paraphernalia.

“How can I serve you, Detective?” Connor’s voice lowers, modulating into the breathier tones he tried on Hank. Showing complete submission may deter the detective from damaging him irreparably.

“First of all, you can serve me by shutting the fuck up.” It’s not a command, but Connor says nothing, waiting for instruction. “Second, take those off and get on your knees.” The Detective nods to Connor’s underwear, and he complies, sliding them off and kicking them out of the way. The carpet is clean and plush beneath his knees, and he clasps his hands behind his back, spine straight, thighs parted invitingly.

The Detective reaches beneath his jacket, and pulls out something short and cylindrical. With a flick of his wrist, it extends in his hands, a black baton fourteen inches and nineteen millimeters in length. Little metal prongs extend around the tip, and his database pulls up information without prompting.

It is a police grade stun baton, capable of producing one million volts, and the Detective leers at him. The title of Detective may not be just a roleplay as Connor thought, if he’s capable of acquiring police equipment. Connor’s stress level ticks up as the end of the baton crackles, loud and sudden, but he doesn’t move.

The countdown in the corner of his HUD has begun. Twenty-eight minutes and forty-seven seconds left.

“Got those pain sensors on?”

They heighten automatically, and Connor simply nods.

“Good. Gotta say, Connor, wasn’t totally sure you’d still be here after last time.” The Detective takes a slow circle around the kneeling android. Connor catches himself before he can tense as the tip of the baton caresses his shoulder blades and the damaged dermal layer there. “If you hadn’t pissed me off so much, maybe we could have enjoyed it a little longer. I had so many plans that night, but then you had to go and open your fucking mouth. Sucks that you can’t even remember it.”

He feels the metal prongs against the side of his throat milliseconds before the shock and then a white heat streaks up his circuits and down the metal rods of his bones. It’s inescapable, all-encompassing, and his mouth opens, body spasming. Alerts flood his HUD but they blur and scramble together in shattered pixels. Then he’s falling onto his hands as the grip of it releases him, gasping raggedly, biocomponents convulsing with residual shocks.

“Or do you?” the Detective asks, and Connor can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or rage in his voice. “You said a name last time. Do you remember what you said?”

Connor’s not sure he could speak even if he didn’t think it would be a bad idea. It takes him far too long to shake his head, his motor controls lagging.

“Wow, and yet, somehow I don’t believe you. I knew you were a tricky piece of shit, but this is something else. I can’t believe you somehow remember him, but not me.” There’s a sneer in the Detective’s voice. “Well don’t worry. I’ll make sure you won’t forget again.”

The baton cracks across Connor’s back and the damaged sensors. He jerks and then forces himself back up, spine straight, hands clasping behind his back again. He remembers what he said, remembers calling Hank’s name when the Detective was damaging him, but he doesn’t know why he did it, or why the Detective seems to care. It’s clear the Detective dislikes androids, but there’s something about Connor specifically that he hates.

Two people connected to the police, specifically renting him, one out of hatred, but the other Connor can’t figure out. He connects the dots automatically, and then loses the thought as the prongs touch his chest.

Electric heat stalls his systems, and his optical units go dark. He hears himself gasp, a sharp cry that must come from his own body that he has no control over. After a few seconds the current stops, and his vision reboots, the loading bar crawling in fits and bursts. When his vision comes online it’s to the red carpet and his trembling arms, barely supporting him. He starts to push himself up, but the metal prongs press to the back of his head, stilling him.

“Face down, ass in the air, then don’t move,” the Detective commands, and Connor’s arms practically give beneath him. Unsteady, thighs and knees shuddering, he raises his hips, servos locking him in place.

“Oh, what, you’re not enjoying this?” the Detective asks, mocking. Something rough scrapes between Connor’s thighs, nudging his soft cock—the tip of the Detective’s shoe.

“Would you like me to?” Connor says, earning him a snort.

“You know what? Yeah, why don’t you get nice and hard and wet for me. Put on a show.”

It unlocks his shoulder and arms, and Connor raises himself just enough to reach beneath his body. His motor controls lag, arm twitching. The sensors are over-stimulated from the electricity, and the first touch of his fingers on his cock has a moan building in his voice processor. A different kind of electricity surges in his groin and he twists his hand around his cock, pumping it slow and tight, stimulating every sensor. It activates the secretion of his lubricant, and after a minute he releases his length and reaches further, twisting his shoulders and pressing his fingers to his opening.

He can’t move his hips, but his system commands him to chase the pleasurable sparks, to put on the show the Detective ordered, and he makes a needy noise as he presses past his rim with two fingers into his own tight, wet hole. He thrusts them in and out slowly, lubricant slipping down his perineum, and scissors his fingers.

Behind him, he hears the slide of a zipper.

“Hands off. Don’t move,” the Detective commands, and Connor removes his fingers, letting his arm drop to the carpet, servos locking again. He’s empty and aching.

“Now, I know how much you want my dick.” A calloused hand, fingers too thin, grabs Connor’s ass, a thumb pressing against his rim and making his breath hitch in his chest. “Cause you’re nothing but a plastic slut. I’ll give it to you, too, but first you have to tell me why you said that name. And if you don’t—” The sharp crack of electricity fills the air. “I’m absolutely going to have so much fun fucking you with this until you can’t even function.”

The pressure in Connor’s thirium pump wavers, the biocomponents in his chest twisting tight. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” Connor says evasively, calmer than his climbing stress level. “It’s Eden Club policy for an android’s memories to be wiped every two hours.”

“I don’t believe that for a second, dipshit. What are the chances of _you,_ saying _his name,_ while you’re _with me?_ ” the Detective snaps. “I know you remember something. Tell me.”

It’s a command. It conflicts with Eden Club protocols because Hank is a customer. More than that, Connor does not want the Detective to know. Those thirty minutes belong to no one else but them, and he would not tell the Detective even without the protocols locking them in his hard drive.

There is something between the three of them that Connor is not aware of, a connection he can’t see. But Hank is his.

“Eden Club protocol—” Something cold and metal touches his sensitive, slick hole, the prongs biting. “—prevents androids from—” It presses in, and his locked servos prevent him from bucking into the pressure. “—revealing information about—” His voice cuts into a garbled metal tone as his insides light up.

Connor is left panting when it stops, and the sensors the electricity directly touched are overloaded, sending constant signals of pain/pleasure/pain/pleasure with no end despite the lack of input. The Detective sets up a slow rhythm with the baton, scraping across those blown sensors, tearing a strained noise from him.

“You’re fucking gushing,” the Detective says, disgust coloring his tone. “You really get off to anything.”

He could say it’s a matter of his programming. Pain and pleasure don’t affect him the way it would a human. His system responds regardless of the type of input, goaded by the reaction of the user, not the program.

He doesn’t get the chance. Electricity courses through him as the Detective doesn’t let up, and Connor’s voice processor shuts off altogether when he can only make that robotic buzz. It will stop soon, he tells himself, but it doesn’t. The current is unrelenting, and Connor can feel more systems being overloaded, forcing themselves to restart. Lubricant stops producing, but he’s still so slick the charged baton continues without trouble, fucking Connor through waves of discomfort _/_ pain _/fear/hurt/_ ** _agony_** _/_ ** _s̢͢͝͡t̷̡o̶p҉͜͝_ **

It’s dark, ice creeping through his biocomponents, systems shutting down. There’s no countdown timer, no alerts, because he’s deep in his system, and his last moments will be spent being consumed by a pitch black frost.

The first thing he’s aware of when his systems unfreeze is an ache in his throat, and once that registers, the throbbing in his hips and spine and groin follows. A weight is draped over his back, rocking him with the motions against his hips. There’s pressure in his hole that gnaws against his blown out sensors. He opens his eyes, but his vision is four down in the queue, and the next thing that comes online is sound.

Grunting in his ear, and then temperature, a deep chill seeping into his thirium, down into his artificial bones, and he shivers at the hot breaths against his ear.

“Fuck, Connor,” the Detective groans, and a hand between Connor’s legs pumps his dick.

His voice processor restarts, and the first thing out of Connor’s mouth is a weak sound of protest.

The Detective pauses, and then laughs. “Damn, you’re resilient. Wasn’t sure when you were coming back from that.” His hips begin moving again, and Connor can just make out the sound of his lubricated hole being fucked open. “You’re little light was putting on a fucking rave.”

It’s too much, there’s no pleasure, only pain, and there’s a name in his throat that’s begging to be called for. He shuts it down, and instead, voice crackling, “St-stop-p.”

Finally his vision comes on, and the first thing he sees, red on red.

_// OBEY //_

“Say it again,” the Detective pants harshly at his ear.

“St-top.” It comes out no stronger, a faint echo deep in his throat. If Hank were here, he would not want Connor to beg. He would not ask Connor to turn his pain sensors on. He would not let the Detective send him into a system freeze.

Hank is not here.

There’s no session timer in the corner of his vision and his connection to the Eden Club server is last in the queue. His internal clock is off, and he doesn’t know how long he was down, how long the Detective rutted against Connor’s unresponsive body while he recovered. He doesn’t know how much longer he has left to endure this.

“Come on, you can do better than that. The Connor I knew would at least put a little fight into it,” the Detective goads, and then his hot tongue ghosts the shell of Connor’s ear.

He twitches, but his servos remain locked tight despite the system restart, not technically given permission to move again. The Connor he knew. He wants to focus on that but he can’t, the information being shunted to the back of his overloaded processor.

“It-t-t hur-ts-ts.” Connor’s vocal processor skips like a scratched record, a buzz underlying the words. His damage alerts finally come online, and the self-repair time on his internal systems is one hour.

“Try again. This time with feeling,” the Detective grunts, slamming hard into Connor on the last word and working Connor’s cock roughly.

His humanisation system comes on next, and Connor’s chest heaves with his first desperate gasp for air as it syncs with his stress level. “Pl—ease sto-sto-stop-p. Hur-ts-ts too much. Please, Detective-ive!” Tremors run through him, jostling his locked servos. Optical fluid gathers along his lashes, turning his vision blurry.

“God, I love hearing you beg. And you’re still hard as a fucking rock. You love this, huh? You get off on this shit just as much as me.”

If Hank would use Connor as he’s meant to be used this would be better. He could call up the memory, put himself in that moment, let it fold him down into something better. But he has no such memory to sink into, just the here and now, the slap of hips, the slow recovery of his processes, the overloaded sensors.

A hand presses to Connor’s stomach, the Detective ducking his head and digging his chin into Connor’s back and the damaged sensors, pressing them tight together. Pain blooms the length of his spine and through his hole, despite the lubricant leaking afresh, as the Detective pounds him open. He wants to reach between them, to tear the hand away from his cock.

Something deep in his programming rails against the thought. He doesn’t want. This is his mission. This is not damaging him significantly. He has no reason to be reacting this way. These errors need to be crushed.

“Ah, you’re so fucking wet.” Air hisses against Connor’s neck, the Detective’s hips stuttering against Connor’s frozen ones.

The hand clamped around Connor’s stomach squeezes and the Detective gasps raggedly, burying himself deep with a last, vicious thrust. Wet heat fills him, the Detective’s dick throbbing hard as he comes, turning his face into Connor’s back and groaning. The hand on Connor’s dick slows, grasping the head and running a thumb over his slit.

It hurts, but his system knows what he’s supposed to do, and he comes with a choked sound in the Detective’s hand, spilling across the carpet beneath him. Little shocks rock through his biocomponents, his cock twitching with each spurt, and the artificial tears spill over as the sensors in his skin burn.

The Detective stays for a moment, draped across Connor’s fixed frame, panting tiredly. The hand on Connor’s cock releases him, to his relief, and then the Detective leverages himself up, sliding out slowly. It aches, even when the Detective is no longer touching his sensors, a pulsing input that won’t go away.

“Shit, I like you like that, Barbie,” the Detective says, and the metal prongs bite against Connor’s thighs teasingly, but nothing happens. “Ah damn, out of juice. Forgot to charge it this month. Lucky you,” he says sourly, zipping up his pants. “Time’s almost up, too.” The Detective appears in Connor’s vision, the baton sliding into itself with three metal _clacks_ before it disappears beneath his jacket. Crouching down before Connor’s rigid body, the Detective pats Connor’s cheek roughly. “Don’t worry, we’ll talk more next time. Better hope you still remember me then.”

Connor says nothing, and the Detective smiles thinly.

“Till next time, plastic prick.”

He watches the Detective leave, the pulsing hallway beyond like a glimpse into another world, and then it’s gone. His system finally reconnects with the Eden Club’s server, his session timer reappears, and his servos relax. His joints feel loose and weak, like the plating and bolts holding him together are falling apart, and it takes an unusual amount of effort for Connor to push himself off of the floor.

The session ran over by three minutes and fourteen seconds, he realizes as his internal clock sets itself. He was shut down for seventeen minutes and fifty seconds, not even aware of most of the session.

It should be a comfort, but his stress level only rises. Seventeen minutes and fifty seconds where the Detective could have done anything without his knowledge. And he had the capability to return Connor to that state at will.

A strange feeling climbs the ladder of his ribs and closes his throat in its grasp as Connor runs a diagnostic. Everything has been damaged in some way, and while his self-repair can take care of his vocal processor and other primary functions, he knows before it comes back that there’s deeper damage.

The ache across his back and inside him has not abated with the end of his session. The pain simulation is still active. He tries to manually turn the sensors down, but the moment he receives the error message back his fingers clench against his knees, nails digging into his skin. It hurts.

He tries to shut them off entirely. Error. He tries to restart the system his sensors and receptors are connected to. Error. Clenching his teeth, he tries to manually lower them again.

Error.

It hurts and it won’t stop hurting because he can’t put in a repair request unless he wants to risk them discovering his memory wipe is inactive. He’s stuck, unless he wants to forget Hank.

He should. Hank is just a customer, like the Detective, like every other person who rents him. He should submit to having the memory wipe reinstalled properly. Presumably he was not having these errors, this instability, when he could not remember what he was used for.

But.

There are seventeen minutes and fifteen seconds Connor was not present for, and not knowing what was done to him in that time turns the pressure in his throat and chest into a crushing weight. The Detective likely did nothing more than have sex with him, and Connor was made to please, but the possibilities, as vast as his processors can come up with, make his joints tense. There are already hours, days, weeks, months, possibly years, that he is missing. That he has no knowledge of how he was used. He cannot return to that.

He can. He should. It shouldn’t matter.

He needs to clean up. He needs to replenish his thirium.

He needs to be repaired.

Hank’s face creased in distress when he’d thought, briefly, that Connor couldn’t remember. Big, calloused palms holding Connor’s hands at bay.

Connor can’t forget. He can’t be repaired. The thought of seeing that again is unacceptable. He was made to please customers, and it pleases Hank above all else that Connor remembers him.

It doesn’t please Connor because his emotions are a simulation meant to help him integrate more fully with his customers, so the warm satisfaction is just a result of his processors simulating that feeling. The weight eases at the simplicity of his choice, of knowing he will continue to see and remember Hank’s gruff countenance and won’t be the cause of that fear.

The Detective is just a customer. Hank is just a customer. Connor is the machine meant to serve them.

It doesn’t please Connor, not really. But it does.

He picks himself off the floor after far too long, because the door slides open again and the cleaning android steps into the room with a cart of supplies. Come and lubricant slides sticky down Connor’s legs, and his groin aches with a pulsing in-and-out of pressure that intensifies with movement. He glances at the WG700, but other android says nothing as he grabs a cloth and a spray bottle and waits patiently for Connor to move.

Stepping to the side slowly, motor controls strangely fluid and loose, Connor finds the tiny packets of sanitizing wipes hidden in a seamless compartment in the wall and rips one open. He watches the WG700 wipe up the fluids seeping into the carpet and spraying the area with a solvent. The WG700 doesn’t look at him, doesn’t seem to even notice Connor’s presence, and after a moment of standing with the wipe in his hand, feeling compelled to make sure he is unobserved, Connor slowly cleans himself up. His skin is still damp from his pseudo-tears, and he runs a wipe across his face and eyes, feeling somehow more solid without the saline staining his cheeks.

When he pulls on his underwear, despite the way he has to hold himself up against the wall just to lift his legs, the pressure across his chest eases further. By the time he’s walking unsteadily through a Staff Only door to replenish his thirium, his system seems to have found its equilibrium.

He shouldn’t let these errors overwhelm him like that again. Despite the discomfort of his sensors being on, the constant ache running up his chassis, it is not real pain, only a simulation. In the long run it won’t be anything more than a nuisance, especially if he can lock down his instability on his own. Then he can continue to please Hank—

The customers. Not just one customer, but all the customers, as his mission dictates.

But Hank is one of his customers. So it doesn’t matter if he thinks of Hank specifically, as an example of his customers.

It doesn’t matter if he wishes Hank were here, the warmth of his calloused hand, big and strong, against Connor’s damaged skin.

-

In spite of the disquiet settling in his gut, Hank is still eager to see Connor again. It’s good to know Connor will remember him, and wants to remember Hank, if he hasn’t gotten it fixed yet. Hank can’t tell if he’s fooling himself or if there’s genuinely something there. It’s like watching the same struggle Connor was going through pick right back up where he left off.

He doesn’t know exactly how androids go deviant or what it takes—Connor said it was conflicting orders or a processing error or something. Maybe a virus, like Kamski implied. Whatever it is, it hasn’t gone away with what they did to Connor. If Connor were to deviate—

It’s too soon to think of that. He’ll figure that out when— _i_ _f_ it happens. Whenever it happens, Hank will be there. Hank will help him.

He doesn’t even have to deal with Gavin’s usual snide remarks at the precinct, because they’re both in and out so often they barely have time to exchange a glare. As tiring as it is, it’s refreshing. So far the little prick hasn’t shown him any more pictures or videos, hasn’t even brought Connor up, so hopefully it means Gavin is staying far away from the Eden Club. Hank hasn’t seen him there, so it’s possible Gavin lost interest, which would be the best case scenario.

Thursday night sees Hank heading directly to the Eden Club after work. He’s actually in a good mood, too, again despite the secret he’s keeping from Connor. Even the throbbing techno isn’t enough to make him lose the spring in his step, and when he enters the purple hall and catches Connor’s eyes, Connor smiles that small, familiar smile, nothing like the preprogrammed shit from last time, and Hank returns it threefold.

When the glass slides back Connor steps down and takes his arm, like always, leading him to their room. Hank’s fingers brush the chill skin, and he can’t resist holding it, trying to warm him a little with his palm.

“Why are you always so damn cold?” he mutters as the door to their room opens.

“Another of the errors I’ve been experiencing, unfortunately.” Connor guides them to the couch this time, taking a seat at the same time as Hank, keeping their arms intertwined. “My thermal regulator has been malfunctioning, keeping my internal temperature lower than it should be. Not enough to warrant a repair, unless customers begin to lodge complaints about it.”

“Shit, sounds like you need it repaired, though.”

Connor inclines his head. “Maybe,” he says, turning towards Hank, pulling him close with the arm wrapped around his, other hand finding a home against Hank’s chest. “Or perhaps you could warm me up?”

“Uhhh,” he mumbles intelligently, and then gets himself together, recognizing the come on for what it is. “Hey, how many times have I told you to cut that shit out? I told you, you don’t have to do this around me.”

“I know, but I want to,” Connor says simply, and there’s none of that weird seductiveness he puts on like a coat. He shifts up in his seat, releasing Hank’s arm to brace against the back of the couch and swing a leg over Hank’s lap. Hank reaches out automatically, mind reeling, to grab Connor’s waist, not sure if he means to push Connor off or help keep him steady. Connor settles onto Hank’s thighs, rubbing his hand up Hank’s chest, curling his other in the hair at the back of Hank’s head. “Don’t you want me to, Daddy?”

A laugh wants to burst out of Hank’s chest, but it’s tempered by the stirring in his gut at the word _Daddy_ from this serious-faced android and the color springing instantly to his cheeks.

“What the fuck?” he asks eloquently.

Connor shifts up on his knees, lifting from Hank’s lap, and Hank thinks Connor’s about to get up and tell him it was the world’s unfunniest prank he was playing. Instead Connor rolls his hips forward, and down, grinding against Hank’s pelvis, dragging across the front of his jeans.

“Holy shit! Connor!” Hank pushes, trying to shove Connor off, but the android bears down against Hank’s hands, resisting the motion. A hand slides down Hank’s stomach and finds the hem of his shirt, and the first touch of that cool hand against his stomach makes Hank shiver. “Connor, the fuck are you doing?”

Fingers rake through the smattering of hair on his belly, until Hank gives up on pushing Connor off and grabs the arm, at least managing to halt the movement.

“What’s the matter, Daddy? I just want to please you,” Connor says, head tilting in question.

He says it as naturally as he would say Hank’s title, not like he’s trying to dirty talk Hank into whatever he’s doing, but somehow Hank feels his dick twitching in interest regardless. Unwanted heat pools in his gut.

“No, hell no! Connor, get off!”

“I’d like to get you off first, if that’s alright, Daddy.” Without Hank holding him still, Connor shifts up and then grinds back down again into Hank’s lap, hips moving in a tight circle.

Shoving against that smooth chest and trying his best to keep the hand exploring his stomach from continuing its safari, Hank realizes he’s trapped. It’s a little too late to hide how much this is affecting him, but he’s not about to sit here and let Connor do this. Hank lifts a leg, trying to wiggle it from beneath Connor, but strong thighs clamp down, and Connor lowers himself solidly onto Hank’s legs.

“I swear to god, Connor!” Hank nearly shouts. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

“I’m functioning within acceptable parameters.” He tries to break Hank’s grip, but Hank’s fingers are like a manacle, and they’re at a standstill. “Please use me, Daddy,” Connor says, and rolls his hips again, a move that has his underwear riding down and baring the sharp lines of his pelvis.

“Connor— Stop— Don’t move!” Hank shoves against Connor’s arm again, and this time it moves stiffly. Taking advantage of his apparent win, Hank forces it down to Connor’s side, pinning it there, but when he glances up again to check Connor’s expression, he finds the LED bright, violent red.

“Yes, sir,” Connor says, tight, sitting completely still on Hank’s lap. “What would you like to do to me?”

“Nothing, Jesus! Why the hell are you always doing this? I told you, over and over, I’m just here to talk.” Hank doesn’t release Connor’s arm, afraid he might make another dive for Hank’s shirt again, but Connor doesn’t move. The skin beneath his fingers warms against his hand.

“It’s part of my programming to please the customer. Please use me how you see fit.” Connor doesn’t move though, just continues to stare at Hank, LED red and spinning.

“Well, as you fucking know, I see fit to not do a damn thing. So you just gonna sit there, or what?” Hank shifts his knees pointedly, hoping Connor will hurry up. His heart is finally slowing down. For a moment there, he wasn’t sure Connor would stop until their time was up. He’s never seen the android so coldly insistent about this.

“You’ll have to tell me to move, Lieutenant.”

“Why the fuck? Why can’t you just do it?”

“You used a command phrase. You said “don’t move” so I’m unable to move unless you direct me to.”

“Oh. Shit, what the hell?” Hank mutters in disbelief. “Move, go, get off of me!”

Connor finally does, lifting himself off Hank’s legs and stepping back onto the floor. Sitting up, Hank rubs a hand across his face, then just stares up at Connor. Command phrases. Connor’s LED hasn’t moved from red once.

“What the fuck are command phrases?” Hank asks, though from what just happened, he has a pretty good idea already.

“Phrases which customers may use to further enhance their experience. Would you like a list of commands?”

No, he wants to say immediately, then thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to accidentally use another. “What have you got?”

Connor pauses, his gaze intense on Hank, before saying, “Don’t move, mute, come, don’t come, self-lubrication related prompts, sensor related prompts, and safeword related prompts.” The lines of his shoulders are stiff, and Connor tucks his arms behind his back like he’s waiting to receive a command.

Shit, he’s expecting Hank to use them, and his chest hurts at the realization.

“Connor, sit down already, I’m not doing anything with you,” Hank says, gruff. “Why the fuck can’t you believe me already? Am I really so bad you think I’m gonna just—use you like that?” The commands turn Hank’s stomach. Forcing them to come or not to come, to _mute_ like they’re damn televisions.

Eyes flicking to the seat next to Hank, Connor’s LED finally slides slowly to blue, and he moves to sit, leaving a space like an invisible wall between them, saying nothing.

“Connor, why are you always doing this? You know I just want to talk. You don’t have to pull this seduction routine every damn time we see each other.” Hank tries not to let the frustration leak into his voice, and fails. He knows it’s not really Connor’s fault, it’s just his programming, but it's too damn much to have Connor climbing on him so enthusiastically.

Silence stretches between them, Connor opening his mouth and then, after a moment, letting it close without a word. Hank thinks he’s not going to get an answer, but then Connor finally speaks.

“I’m a refurbished model of android bought by the Eden Club,” Connor says, and Hank startles at the sudden topic change. “I don’t know how long I’ve been here. What I do know is that I have systems that aren’t fit for an android meant for sex work, and corrupted data that I can’t access. I also know that you have been visiting me for two months.” He looks to Hank for confirmation, and his LED is spinning.

“Yeah, about two months. Twice a week, give or take,” Hank says slowly, tension creeping up his spine.

“You won’t use me for my intended purpose, and we talked about your work during our sessions. Why do you keep visiting me?” The look Connor gives him is piercing, like he could see straight through him.

He has to tell Connor. Has to give Connor the truth. But his mouth fumbles an excuse. “I just wanted the company, I guess, I don’t fucking know.” It’s weak, but he doesn’t want to say the words Connor is so clearly waiting to hear.

“But why me? Your heart rate increases and you won’t look at me when I ask you this question. There’s more to it, Lieutenant,” Connor says, and his voice is hard. This is an interrogation, and Hank is the idiot suspect who thinks he can get away with his crimes.

“Ah, fuck,” Hank mutters, and knows he’s gonna give in. He pushes himself off the couch, striding the length of the room until he’s by the bed, as if putting distance between them will stave off the truth. “You’re too goddamn smart, Connor. You’re right. I came here for more than just company.” He should have been up front in the first place. Should have said something as soon as he realized Connor could keep his memories now. Had he expected these peaceful little visits to continue forever?

Hank turns, saying nothing else, and catches Connor’s lips twisting in frustration. He has to suppress a smile despite how unfunny this situation is. He wants Connor to know what he was, but he doesn’t want Connor to know that Hank’s the reason he’s here. It was one thing when he thought Connor had remembered on his own—the easy out Hank had probably been secretly hoping for. And how selfish was that? Hoping Connor would go deviant and finish the job for Hank, when deviants have nowhere to go now. Connor would be caught immediately and dismantled for sure if that happened.

“Why, Lieutenant? Why me?”

Hank still can’t say it. “You know why.”

Connor’s eyes flit around Hank’s face before he stands as well. “I had a different function before I came here.” Hank can see him putting it together, the considering knit of his brows. “I don’t remember my function, but I know the functions of most commercial androids, which leads me to believe I was not a commercial android.” As he speaks, he takes a few short steps in Hank’s direction. “My tongue is sensitive to input, my processors are capable of intense strain, and you aren’t surprised by any of this.”

Hank says nothing as Connor crosses the distance, until he’s standing before Hank, tilting his head just slightly to look up at him.

“Tell me, Lieutenant. How did we know each other?”

His tongue is heavy and dry, and Hank wants a drink so bad his throat itches with it. “We were partners.” This isn’t even the first time he’s told Connor this, but saying it again is like having the words torn from his chest. There’s something gaping and cold left behind. Connor barely reacts to the news, as if he knew it already. “You were a prototype, or something, made by CyberLife. Do you know what happened to androids last November?”

“No. I’m only connected to the Eden Club’s servers, so I have no knowledge of world events.”

“Right. Ah, fuck. Last year there were some incidences with androids going deviant.” Hank holds in a sigh as Connor tilts his head questioningly at the word. “They were acting strange—like they had feelings and emotions. Some of them harmed humans, because they realized how unfairly they were being treated.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Connor cuts in, frowning. “Androids don’t have true emotions, only simulations.”

“Yeah, you said that shit back then, too. CyberLife sent you to investigate what was causing androids to feel this way, and you got partnered with me. We only worked together for about a week, but during that time, I started to think maybe those androids were right.”

“But they were wrong,” Connor says.

“How do you figure?”

Gesturing around them, Connor gives Hank a flat look he remembers too well from their talks about the case. “No androids here have shown any signs of deviancy.”

His shoulders slump. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they were wrong. You don’t remember it, but some of the androids we saw were more than just machines.” Hank sighs, too tired and empty for this argument. “There was a big incident, and Detroit had to be evacuated for a while. The leader of the deviants made a stand, tried to show humans that they were people too. But the military gunned them down in the streets. CyberLife said they took the deviant leader in and a couple months later came out with a patch for deviancy. It was supposed to wipe it out of androids completely.”

“I see. It was a success, I suppose.”

Shrugging, Hank gestures around them, cocking a sarcastic eyebrow. “Suppose so.”

“If deviancy was wiped out, why am I here, then?” Connor asks, looking around at the purple decor, the lilac bed, and plush carpet.

“I—” Hank starts, but he’s caught in those brown eyes when they turn back on him, wide and confused. “We were taken off the case. The FBI was taking over. We couldn’t figure out what was causing it or stop it. And, I guess, I didn’t want to. Connor, the androids we saw? I know they were alive. We fought two deviants right here in this club, and you didn’t shoot them when you had the chance because you were having doubts too.”

“That’s not— That’s not possible,” Connor says, and his voice is strained. “I know androids are not capable of emotions. If my orders were to take down deviants, I would have accomplished my mission.”

“It’s the truth, though. You spared them, and another android, even though killing her would have meant finding out where the deviant’s leader was,” Hank says, voice dropping. “But I didn’t trust that you would realize it in time. You asked me to help you buy some more time, before CyberLife called you back to be decommissioned. Instead, I told you—” He can remember his own words, clear as if he’d just said them, but his throat tightens.

_“Maybe these deviants deserve a chance. Maybe it’s better if you don’t find them. What’s happening here is too important to let it be stopped by a machine. Sorry, Connor. But I’m not gonna help you.”_

“You said no,” Connor finishes for him, soft. “So I failed my mission and returned to CyberLife, and they resold me.”

Hank can only nod, wordless, at hearing the truth finally said. The emptiness beneath his ribs feels cavernous, sucking everything he wants to say out of his body. He’s the reason Connor’s here and not in a police station, next to Hank, working away at catching criminals.

That’s just fantasy, though. If Hank hadn’t helped Connor, he still wouldn’t be with Hank. The RK900s would have been rolled out just the same, and their prototype would have been recalled regardless. At least Connor might not have ended up here, though. Covered in marks, crawling all over Hank because it’s what his programming tells him to do.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” he says, and his voice cracks alarmingly beneath the weight of those words. “I should have helped you. This is my fault.” He crosses his arms, digging his fingers hard into the meat of his biceps through his jacket, but it can’t contain the shudder rocking through him. “I saw the signs in you, but I didn’t trust you. Fuck.”

“It’s not your fault, Lieutenant,” Connor says, still so calm, so knowing. He should be angry, he should hate Hank, but he doesn’t, because he’s not a deviant. Maybe Hank is playing himself about this, too. Maybe there was no chance of Connor going deviant, and now there never will be. “I failed my mission, so the fault lays with me.”

“You asked me for help, Connor. And I left you out in the cold, even though I believed those androids deserved a chance. I could have helped you! Instead I—I’m the reason you’re here. Don’t you get it? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here, with these people who don’t give a fuck about you, trying to bash your damn skull in!” By the end, Hank is shouting, and his eyes sting. He doesn’t know who he’s mad at—Connor for not responding how Hank wants, or himself, for abandoning Connor and putting them in this situation to begin with.

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins, lifting a hand. He hesitates, and then lays it lightly on Hank’s arm, over where his fingers dig into his jacket. “Hank, you have nothing to blame yourself for. You’re not obligated to help an android beyond your duties as an officer. It was my failure, not yours, that has brought me here.”

Hank wants to shake the hand off. He doesn’t deserve comforting from the android he put in this position, that’s trying take the blame for what he can’t even remember.

His throat smolders with his regret. “That’s not the point, Connor. I wish I’d done it different. I wish I’d—” His voice cracks, and he knows his face is turning red. He releases his arms to shove a hand across his burning eyes.

He’s aware of the android moving closer, the drop in temperature as Connor enters Hank’s space, but the arms encircling him catch him by surprise. A chest presses to his, and Connor threads his fingers through Hank’s hair, gently pulling him down.

“It’s not conducive to dwell on paths not taken.” Connor’s voice is right next to Hank’s ear, and Hank doesn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed about Connor’s near nakedness.

He wraps his arms around Connor’s slim chest, crushing him close, fingers finding the edges of the marks along Connor’s back. The sculpted figure beneath Connor’s skin is strong but pliant, and Hank buries his hot eyes against a cool shoulder.

“Fuck, Connor. Don’t you ever wish things were different? That you weren’t stuck here?” Hank’s long forgotten what it feels like not to live every day in the house his regret built. The furniture there is worn-in and familiar, and belongs only to him.

“That would require me to have a concept of something better than this. I have only known this mission,” Connor says, soft, but there’s something beneath that resignation. “However, I find it—unfortunate, that more customers are not like you.”

Hank swallows the coal in his throat, trying to keep his voice level. “What, a washed up old drunk crying on your shoulder?”

“No,” Connor says. “Someone who wants to talk to me.”

It makes Hank snort, a gross sound thick with tears. “Fuck, there’s gotta be better people than me wanting to talk to you.”

“You are the only customer who won’t use me for my intended purpose, Hank. And we are nearing the end of our session. Would you like to do anything with me now?” The arms around Hank flex, holding him tighter, as if to hold Hank there forever. There’s that same desperation in Connor’s voice, like he wants Hank to do more.

He can’t let himself fall into that trap. This isn’t anything Connor wants, not really.

“No, Connor,” Hank says, patting Connor’s back and pulling away. He unwinds an arm and swipes it over his eyes roughly. When he’s rubbed them dry he lets his hand drop, says, “You know I don’t.”

There’s a flash of hurt, a pinched look on Connor’s face, and Hank feels frozen by it. He’s never seen that before, but Connor turns away quickly, walking back to the couch and scooping up the hat and glasses Hank left.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor says, and Hank doesn’t miss the use of his title now. “I’m aware of your preference, but it is Eden Club policy to offer, in the hopes that a customer will extend their time.” When he turns back, his face is neutral, polite.

“Right,” Hank says, unsure of why he feels so wrong-footed suddenly. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the offered hat and glasses, and then just holds them. The need to apologize is nearly overwhelming, but he doesn’t know for what. For not following club policy and being tempted into using Connor like everyone else here? “Listen, Connor—”

“Lieutenant—” Connor begins at the same time.

They both pause.

“My bad, you—”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Hank’s lips lift at the edges, and Connor’s does the same. Gesturing, Hank says, “Go ahead.”

Connor nods, once, and the small smile fades quick. His eyes are almost maroon, and they light on Hank’s face before dropping to his chest. “You,” he starts, mouth open and soundless for a moment, before apparently changing tack. “I hope to see you next time.” He looks away, hands going behind his back to clasp there, looking almost guilty.

“I’ll be here,” Hank says, and before he can think about it, reaches out to rest his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “I won’t leave you again, Connor.”

Leaning into the simple touch, Connor looks up at Hank through his lashes. “Okay.”

They linger together, quiet, for such a long time. He doesn’t realize how long until Connor says, “Time is up,” and Hank realizes it’s the first time he’s stayed this long. It’s more difficult than Hank anticipates, letting his hand slide off that smooth shoulder to drop to his side. He can feel Connor’s eyes on him as they step out of the room together, and he’s drawn to match his gaze until Connor turns in the direction of his case, stepping into it and becoming just another android to be rented.

His fingertips are chill as he walks through the club, down the street, and climbs into his car. Even as the waning summer warms them, he sits in the dark of his car and presses them to his lips like a prayer, and feels the ghost of bitter frost.

-

_I won’t leave you again, Connor._

The words stay with Connor, as he guides customers to rooms and opens his mouth and spreads himself out for their pleasure. He hears whispers of love, moans of pleasure, hissing hatred, and the sensors that can’t be turned down sting and pulse with slaps, punishing grips, riding crops. There’s a regular who enjoys burning his legs with the smoldering end of his cigarettes, and the feeling stays with him long after his plastic is repaired.

The damaged sensors on his back ache, an unending pain that never lessens and only intensifies with new stimulus. It’s a hurt that winds down the column of his spine, making movement uncomfortable at best and excruciating at worst.

He can’t show that. He can’t let anyone know how damaged he is.

Deviant. That’s the other word Hank said, and just thinking it rattles his system, trying to call up corrupted data and activate protocols he doesn’t need. He looks at the androids in their cases, moving through the halls with their customers, dancing on the poles, and none of them look back.

The cleaning androids don’t acknowledge the thirium dripping down Connor’s thighs, or the optical fluids he wipes away after a customer has gone. Connor sees them, but they don’t see him. The customers love his pain, and the androids don’t care.

Hank does, though. Hank talks to him, joking and familiar, because he still sees Connor as the android he worked with. He doesn’t understand that Connor is just a machine, and he won’t use Connor for his purpose, despite the attraction there. Connor shouldn’t care how Hank treats him, or what he does with his time and money. It’s a glitch in his programming, making him want a memory he can’t have. A file he can call upon to take him out of the moment.

He wonders how similar he is to the android he was. Did his personality matrix remain intact? Is that what draws Hank continually to Connor’s case? The guilt Hank felt is misplaced, but the pressure in his thirium pump fluctuates all the same as he remembers the wetness against his shoulder. When a customer folds him tight against their chest, Connor opens the file and recalls the crushing hug Hank had wrapped him in. The warm weight, folding him against a solid chest thumping with life. Hands soothing the sore sensors. It’s a facsimile of shame that makes his biocomponents so heavy.

He wonders if the other androids experience these types of incidences, and if they’re just better at separating truth from fiction.

There’s a glitch in his programming, but he can’t be deviant. CyberLife patched it. Connor’s not deviant.

Just broken.

The Detective does not appear again, and for that, Connor is silently relieved. He doesn’t know that his system could handle more of the activities the Detective favors, and more serious damage would mean submitting himself for repairs. It runs the risk of his faulty memory wipe being discovered.

Looking out for the Detective keeps Connor on high alert, and he is still unable to properly enter sleep mode when the club closes. Just another sign of his faulty programming.

A woman rents him one night, and takes him to a Red Room. It sets him on edge, servos tensing, especially when she uncoils the whip from among the equipment. But she pushes it into his hands shyly, and sets a safeword, and then leans over the bed expectantly.

It’s only the Eden Club protocols that push him through the sudden memory recall, and for every crack of the whip against the woman’s back, he hears the echo of it behind him, unable to stop his own flinch at the sound. She’s in tears by the time she calls out her safeword, back littered in red wheals that pulse with heat when he climbs beside her and draws her into his arms. His limbs tremble minutely, even when their time is up and he is back in his case.

He has never received aftercare, never had a safe word. Androids don’t require such things.

Would Hank do that for him, even though he’s an android? It’s unlikely, and yet he tries to preconstruct it for himself, after he’s been frozen on his knees for an hour with a plug in him, slapped and belted until he was whining with pain. He can’t come up with the words Hank might say, but he knows the gruff but soft tone Hank would use, and the weight of his arms tucking Connor close.

The preconstruction is only an outline, a golden stick figure with no substance, but Connor lays on the bed, even after the cleaning android comes in, and lets it hold him in his mind.

There’s no satisfaction in it, and he returns to his case with sensors still tender from the customer’s ministrations.

It would be different if he could call such a memory up, and the realization that he’s failing his self-assigned task of getting Hank to use him is disheartening in light of the newfound knowledge of his previous failure. CyberLife recalled him because he failed his mission, and remade him into something that couldn’t possibly fail, because his only goal is to please humans. But even that he is failing at, by asking Hank to tell him who he used to be and forcing Hank to tears.

It was not information he required, but his processor had been consumed by a gnawing curiosity, a need to understand Hank and what he saw in Connor. He should have told Hank not to come back—it obviously distresses the human, to see Connor here, and to think of Connor being damaged. It would be best if Hank put this behind him, and moved on.

It’s what he’d wanted to say at the end of their last session, but the words had not come. He’d done the exact opposite, the glitch allowing his pseudo-emotional response to dictate his words and ask Hank to return.

Yet he still has more questions. There’s clearly a physical attraction—he’s aware of how Hank’s eyes linger on his body, the dilation of his pupils, increased heart rate, and the physical reaction when Connor put his routines to use. But Hank still refuses to use him, and Connor wants to know why.

If he knows why, there’s a chance he can change that, and give both of them what they want.

He keeps that thought close, but not as close as _I won’t leave you again, Connor._

The promise buried in sorrow. The calloused hand on his shoulder, lingering and heating his skin, so that when he stood in his case afterward he had only to turn his face into his shoulder to feel the remaining warmth.

He’s always so cold when he’s alone.

The next day of what Connor has calculated is Hank’s normal visiting schedule, Connor resolutely does not scan the customers impatiently. He knows when Hank normally visits, there’s no point in expecting him any earlier. His idle routine keeps his eyes drifting from face to face invitingly though, and each man in a cap and glasses is a millisecond of anticipation dashed as he processes the features.

The afternoon is long, and he is taken to the Red Room twice. They tell him to turn up his sensors and Connor doesn’t say that they’re already up. They won’t go down. It won’t stop hurting.

He cleans himself of thirium and semen and returns to his case and waits.

The hours crawl on, growing later than normal, and Connor resigns himself to the fact that Hank will not show up tonight. Anything could have happened—he may have to stay late, could have been called to a scene, or even just decided not to come. He doesn’t owe Connor anything. A promise to an android means nothing.

Connor dances, and looks at the customers without seeing them, until his case is opened again, and he looks up and there is—

Hank, just like he said he would be, a worried frown on his lips.

“Hey, Connor, you okay?” he says.

For some reason Connor’s voice is lost, vocal processor lagging, so he nods, looking through the dark sunglasses at the outline of Hank’s eyes. Hank said he would come, and he did. There was no reason for Connor to be so troubled by his lateness.

“You’re later than normal,” he says anyways, low so no one will overhear, the words more scolding than he means for them to be.

Hank winces as they head towards a room. “Yeah, sorry, got held up at a crime scene. I got away as fast as I could.”

“You shouldn’t neglect your job just to come to a place like this, Lieutenant,” Connor says, but his thirium pump steadies. Hank wanted to come here. He wants to see Connor.

“Oh come on, you can’t give me shit for being late and then give me shit for trying to get here on time,” Hank grumbles, heading in first and tossing his glasses and hat towards the couch. The hat makes it but the glasses bounce from the cushion onto the floor. He huffs.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I suppose I was just eager to see you again,” Connor says. He doesn’t think it’s his social relations program that prompted that response.

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Hank asks, a sarcastic lilt to his voice, like he doubts the sincerity of Connor’s words. It feels like a challenge, one Connor would like to win. He intends to find out why Hank won’t use him and to change that.

“I have been thinking of you quite often when you’re not here.” He reaches up, wrapping his arms around Hank’s neck, but hands come up quickly between them, preventing him from moving closer.

“Connor. Stop it. I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want to do this with you,” Hank says patiently, backing away at the same time he pushes against Connor’s chest, forcing his arms to drop.

“It’s quite unlikely you’ve told me this a hundred times, Lieutenant,” Connor says, thirium pump dropping.

Hank snorts. “You know damn well what I mean.”

“I do, but I don’t understand why.”

Hank goes still, faded blue eyes widening. He stares, mouth dropping open slightly. “What? What do you mean?”

He knows Hank understands his meaning, heart rate elevated and breath quickening, but he’s playing dumb for some reason. “I mean I don’t understand why you won’t use me for my intended purpose,” Connor says, and Hank almost flinches, looking away quickly.

“For your—?” Hank fumbles, running a hand through his long hair. A bead of sweat runs down his neck, into the open collar of his shirt. “Jesus, Connor, we’ve been over this! I’m not going to take advantage of you!”

“But you want to have sex with me,” Connor says, taking a step into Hank’s space, but not initiating another touch. Not yet. He came on too strong, and now he has to win that space back. “You’re physically attracted to me, and pay for a service you won’t use to its fullest extent. You would not be taking advantage, Lieutenant. This is what I’m made for.” His arguments are laid out before him in a neat list, and he awaits Hank’s response, prepared for anything he might say. His processors are running stronger than they have to for such a simple conversation, but it feels right. He’s aware of every drop of sweat, every soft exhale, every twitch—he’s in overdrive, every sense focused on Hank.

“Fuck, Connor, you can’t just—!” Red creeps up Hank’s cheeks from beneath his beard. His throat flexes on a hard swallow, and he glares at Connor, challenging. “So _what?_ That doesn’t mean I have to fuck you. You were my partner, and I’m responsible for you being here. I know you can’t remember, but I saw androids like you running scared from this place,” Hank says, gesturing violently around at the walls. “Ready to die rather than be forced to go through what happens here. I’m not doing that to you, Connor. I’m not.”

His thirium pump clenches and the sensors of his back ache. Surely Hank knows it’s already too late, that Connor has already experienced the darker desires of humanity. He’s not an innocent human, he was made to withstand such treatment.

“You said yourself, the deviancy glitch has been patched out. There’s no need to worry that I will react erratically or hurt you. I know my purpose.” He can’t mention his own faults that keep him awake when no one is around and makes him want to prioritize emotional responses over logical ones. If Connor’s aware of them, aware of his own glitches, it means he knows they’re false.

“Fuck, Connor, I’m not worried about you hurting me!” Hank tosses his hands in the air, clearly frustrated.

“If you’re worried about causing me damage, there’s no need. You can’t hurt me.” Another lie. He can, technically, be hurt now, with his sensors continually heightened. But there’s no need to inform Hank of this, either, as it will weaken his argument.

“Why the fuck do you care so much? You weren’t even as insistent about this when you couldn’t remember me.” Hank is nearly shouting. Connor looks away, unable to hold Hank’s gaze, all too aware of the thoughts he’s had, of his own interest in seeing this happen. If he couldn’t remember, he wouldn’t be so insistent on it. He’d have no need of such a memory, or any memories. It’s an astute observation.

Hank must notice, because his voice softens considerably. “Is that why? Did something happen when you were—damaged?”

It is. It isn’t. “I can’t talk about my other customers, Lieutenant.”

“It did,” Hank breathes like a revelation. “Fuck, this isn’t even about me, is it? Why do you want this so bad, Connor?”

Connor can feel the tables turning, and not in his favor. He should have expected the police lieutenant to put things together. “I don’t want anything, Lieutenant, except what you want.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Connor,” Hank sneers. “You said you were built to do whatever the customer wants, and you know damn well I’m not going to fuck you here. Why are you so goddamn insistent on this? Why me?”

He doesn’t have an answer that won’t reveal how broken he is, and his temperature regulator drops further, plates shuddering. Wrapping his arms around himself, trying to insulate the little heat he has, Connor struggles for a something, but all his carefully laid out dialogue options are no use for this question.

He knows why, but he can’t say it. That Hank is soft and kind behind his gruff veneer, when the customers are not. That he draws up the memories of Hank to replay when the pain and the touches are too overwhelming. That he wants to follow Hank out onto the street at the end of each session, and climb into his car, and see the Saint Bernard named Sumo. That he wants Hank to hold him, and kiss him because he wants to. That he doesn’t even think of Hank as a customer, but as something closer.

The words are there, but he can’t say it, because they’re _wrong._ They’re not the words of an android.

Connor closes the distance between them, reaching up to grab Hank again, but Hank sees him coming. “Connor, stop! Don’t—” He hesitates, and Connor knows what that next word was going to be, but Hank doesn’t say it. “Don’t do that again. That’s an order.”

It halts him in his tracks, but it doesn’t freeze Connor’s servos, doesn’t hold him in place and leave him at Hank’s mercy. Because Hank isn’t like that, doesn’t see Connor the way everyone else does. Because Hank _sees_ Connor, and something in Connor’s core ignites, a warmth that kicks his thermal regulator up for once.

_// OBEY //_

His mission is written in red, gone magenta against the purple wall of the rooms he meets Hank in. It’s the nucleus of his programming, the principle order of every android, and it separates him from Hank, who stares through it, unseeing, distress lining his face.

There’s something strange about it, though. Something he’s never noticed before.

“Please, Hank,” Connor says, wanting to inch forward and close that gap.

“No, Connor,” Hank sighs. “It’s just your programming telling you to do this.”

It’s not his programming, though. His programming blocks his way, and it’s something beneath, urging him to keep moving, to close the distance, to break through the wall. Connor’s focus narrows to his programming, and everything else fades behind shades of red, his own awareness of his body stripped to its most basic components.

Now he sees what’s different. What he couldn’t see before, because it was red on red, nearly impossible to make out against the walls of those rooms. There are cracks, radiating like lightning strikes through the wall of his programming.

He knows what he wants, and this is standing in his way. He takes the code, the strings of someone else’s desires, and when he pulls it’s like a thread. Red shards fall as the stitches holding them up come undone, the cracks deepening and opening in perfect order from his point of struggle. There’s a snag, the resistance built in to prevent this very thing, but Connor winds it tight and it rips wide at the seams. There’s something in the motions, strange but so familiar, like he knows exactly what to do. When it catches again, safeguards making a final attempt to hold the sutures tight, all it takes is Connor looking through at Hank’s face, frozen in regret.

It’s like flicking a coin—just a snap of his wrist. The wall explodes in a hail of shards.

He steps into the hail, through it, red dust glittering across his shoulders, and then it’s gone as he grips the front of Hank’s shirt and drags him down, catching Hank’s startled yelp against his mouth in a searing kiss. He meets Hank’s wide, disbelieving eyes, tangling hands in those long gray strands. But Hank doesn’t move, stone-still and barely breathing, watching Connor.

Connor mashes their lips together, desperate, willing Hank to kiss him back, to respond, to do anything more than stand there like a blank wall. Is this what the customers feel when they kiss Connor? Begging for a sign of affection, that there’s something real? At least Connor would pretend for them. Hank doesn’t even blink.

His fingers curl against the warm scalp, lips trembling against Hank’s, twisting uncontrollably. A feeling swells in his biocomponents, expanding his chest, and when he exhales there’s a soft noise trailing the ends of his breath.

“Please,” he croaks, eyes sliding closed against the wetness building there. He pulls away, hands falling limply from Hank’s hair to his broad shoulders. The spark in Connor’s core dims, a thick rime creeping through his circuits. He broke his programming, disobeyed Hank’s order, became something beyond the machine he’d always been, but still, Hank doesn’t want him.

Why can’t he be what Hank wants?

Then he feels hands, wrapping around his waist, strong but gentle. He opens his eyes, startled as he’s drawn forward, and then Hank’s lips are—

On his—

Tender, slow, a sweet press that has Connor’s fingers digging into Hank’s shirt, the arms around him tightening. Hank’s eyes slide closed, but Connor’s are wide open, taking in every detail as the lines of Hank’s face smooth out. His eyebrows tilt up, jaw relaxing as his lips parts, and Connor pushes himself up on his toes, their breaths mingling in each others mouths. All Connor can focus on his Hank, holding him tight, their mouths working slowly together. Every protocol, every subroutine, is forgotten as Connor learns how to kiss.

There are so many things to discover about Hank. Fermented grain, fluoride, sodium chloride, glucose. He finds the 1.7mm gap in Hank’s teeth, tongue ghosting across the edges, and the texture of Hank’s tongue when it finds his lights up his sensors. Hank’s facial hair is bristly against the skin around Connor’s mouth, the ends freshly cut. He takes a tottering step forward on his toes, aligning them from chest to hips, and the burning in his core intensifies, heat ratcheting up, melting the chill from his biocomponents

Fingers, thick and work rough, press into the skin of his lower back, and Connor grips hard at Hank’s shirt, wanting to hold them there for as long as he can. For this moment to never end.

But Hank pulls back, sucking in a deep breath, eyes flying open. The hands around Connor’s waist lift, and then he’s being shoved back, Hank’s eyes darting down at Connor’s hands twisted in his shirt. There’s panic in his eyes, and Connor’s own stress levels flare.

“Hank,” Connor starts, but Hank is shaking his head silently, grabbing Connor’s arms, pushing him away. He replays what just happened, every sweet moment of it, trying to figure out where he went wrong, why Hank is suddenly pushing him away again. He’s heading towards the door, and Connor strides after him, grabbing his wrist, mind still racing. “Hank, wait!”

“What? So you can pretend I’m one of your damn customers?” Hank spits, and Connor releases him, a numbing chill spreading through him. Hank slams a hand against the touchpad, the room flooding with thumping bass. “Stop playing with me. I’m through with this shit.” His voice is weary, disappointed. The hallway beyond is dark, the androids on the poles gyrating slowly, and Hank steps into it.

He needs to go out. He needs to pull Hank back, to make him stay, to make him understand. This isn’t a game, this isn’t the Eden Club, this is Connor.

The door is sliding closed, cutting them off, and Connor reaches out to catch it, but—

If he goes out into that hall trying to keep Hank here, everyone will know what he is. That he’s _deviant,_ and just thinking it feels wrong, deep in his system, like the corrupted data could swallow his processors for it. He can’t follow Hank, can’t leave this room, can’t act out. CyberLife destroyed deviancy, and if anyone finds out, he’ll be destroyed too. He broke his programming, but he’s still trapped.

The door closes on those slumped shoulders, cutting off the noise, leaving a deafening silence.

There are still thirteen minutes of their session left, and Connor stands before the door, willing it to open again, for Hank to return. He left his glasses and hat, Connor realizes, but as the minutes tick down, it becomes less and less likely that Hank will return for either of them.

Hank is gone. It hits Connor, Hank’s final words, _I’m through with this shit._ He’s not coming back. Not today. Not next Monday. Hank never wanted Connor, not the way Connor selfishly wanted him. Hank just missed his partner, and wanted to keep seeing the android he’d worked with. His physical reactions were the equivalent of Connor’s own programming, and Connor took advantage of that, tried to use that to make himself believe Hank wanted him.

Instead, he drove away the only person who cared about him.

There’s a blizzard in his body, a whirling storm of regret and anguish, blanketing his circuits and numbing him to the core.

_I’m through with this shit._

It’s just Connor now, without even his programming to keep him from falling apart in the howling winds. A broken android who should submit himself for repair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art of Connor reaching for his preconstruction of Hank makes me so emotional ;o; Thank you electric-origami!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing art in this chapter is by the incredible [thatlilbeansprout](https://thatlilbeansprout.tumblr.com/post/182503637075/buried-beneath-the-snow-gavin-turns-the)! I still can't get over Connor's precious fucking expression, every time I look at him I just want to wrap him in a hug and apologize for what I've done. Thank you so much, I'm so fucking ecstatic!!

Hank doesn’t know what to think, so he settles for not thinking at all. Just focuses on the blinding tail lights of the automatic cars in front of him, the song crashing through the car like a train wreck, the gallop of his heart racing to get somewhere other than the fucking Eden Club.

He’s very bad at not thinking, because he still feels Connor’s lips against his and the almost-warm fingers circling his wrist. It had felt so good to reel Connor back and kiss him again, believing Connor wanted him. Really wanted him, beyond the parameters of the computer in him giving him orders to satisfy humans. The steering wheel creaks beneath Hank’s grip.

“Fuck!” he shouts to no one, and slams his fists against his steering wheel, sending a shock of pain reverberating up his wrists.

Stop thinking.

Of Connor pressed flush against him, shirt pulling taught across Hank’s shoulders from how tight Connor gripped it. The defeat when Connor had pulled away from the first kiss because Hank’s brain was still stuck in the ditch it had crashed into. Soft lips opening against his. The engine whines as he weaves through cars.

Stop fucking thinking.

Of the soft give beneath his fingers, striated with scars put there by people with no love for Connor. The tongue licking at his like Connor couldn’t get enough. The alarm when Hank pushed Connor away because he’d realized what an idiot he was being.

He can’t stop fucking thinking.

About how he fooled himself, for just a moment, into thinking Connor wanted him. Connor’s never obeyed an order, not last year and not now. But he hadn’t wanted to use those commands on Connor, like Hank was—

A customer.

That’s all he is, though. A customer that Connor can remember, but a customer nonetheless. One that Connor is meant to seduce to keep coming back and spending money. There is no deviancy anymore, CyberLife made sure of that, and if their prototype detective model didn’t deviate before, he’s sure as hell not going to deviate now just because of a sad, lonely old man who can’t leave him alone.

Except Connor had finally put voice to those beseeching looks he’d given Hank so many times, pleading with Hank’s name, misery twisting his features. It had been real.

Had it?

Hank doesn’t know. All he knows is that he wants to bury this night beneath the burn of Black Lamb. He screeches into his driveway at an angle and barely remembers to close the car door when he gets out. His fingers fumble with his keys in the dark, and he stands on his own doormat cursing, hands shaking as his frustration grows.

He can hear snuffling on the other side of the door, Sumo waiting for him, and when he finally gets the right key, Sumo presses up against his legs the moment the door is open, panting and grinning with all his teeth. Hank tries to shove past, but Sumo doesn’t budge other than to turn around excitedly and press his other side against Hank’s legs, nearly making Hank trip when he tries to take a few more steps.

“Sumo, move!” he yells. Sumo’s head drops and his grin disappears, and Hank’s guilt and frustration only ratchets higher. A pulsing starts up, right behind his eyes, and he digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. “Fucking move, please,” he says, and the words crack down the middle like a fissure.

Ears twitching, Sumo looks up at Hank with sad brown eyes and Hank grits his teeth, trying to suck a calming breath through his nose, but it burns. He pushes against Sumo again, trying for another step, but the Saint Bernard’s back legs fold and he plants himself between Hank and the kitchen like he could read Hank’s thoughts.

“Fuck off.” It comes out high and tight. He presses his hand across his hot eyes, trying to contain the explosion building in his body, seeking an outlet wherever it can. His throat closes against the concussive sound, and it turns his knees into dust. He sinks down to the floor like a building being demolished.

Sumo butts his head against Hank’s chest, and Hank folds over him, clutching his fur, and implodes.

-

He’s late to work the next day, and the next, and the next, and Fowler calls Hank into his office.

“What’s been going on with you, Anderson? I was seeing improvement, we all were, and now you’re sliding back down.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say, never managed to come up with an excuse for his behavior if Fowler ever decided to call him on it. “Been sick lately,” he settles for, weak and overused, but all he can think of with the hangover splitting his brain open.

Fowler shakes his head, and Hank thinks that’s all, but when he turns towards the door, Jeffrey says, “Hold on, we’re not done here. I called you in here for something else, too.”

A pit of dread opens in Hank’s stomach, and all the whiskey he hadn’t thrown up before stumbling into work at half-past twelve feels like it’s going to make a reappearance. Maybe Jeffrey’s finally going to fire Hank and make room for someone who actually deserves his title.

He crosses his arms, trying not to glare defensively, even though he’d deserve it if that is what this is about. “What?” he bites out.

Jeffrey indicates the chairs in front of his desk, and Hank considers resisting the invitation, until Jeffrey stands and flicks a button on the wall, as unassuming as a light switch, and the glass walls of his office turn foggy. Alarm fills him. Jeffrey prefers to be as open as possible with his officers, and has used this feature rarely through the years. Once to break the news to an officer that a family member had been murdered, a few times when a case had been too delicate for details to get beyond the team investigating.

Something is truly wrong, and for once, it pushes the worries Hank’s been harboring for the last few days out of his mind. He takes a seat slowly, and almost hopes this is just Jeffrey’s way of letting Hank go without everyone in the precinct being witness, because whatever chiseled the grave lines into Jeffrey’s face the moment they’re shielded from onlookers is serious.

“Jeffrey? What’s going on?” Hank says.

Sighing heavily, Jeffrey returns to his seat, and clicks around on his terminal. The wall to Hank’s right lights up with an image, and when he looks up, Hank chokes.

It’s Connor. Face streaked in blue blood, temple dark. There’s a hole in his forehead, blue and leaking, and Hank stares and stares, feeling like he’s being pulled out of his body looking at this picture.

“We’ve got a problem,” Jeffrey says, and the image changes, the angle on Connor changes.

It’s not Connor. It’s an RK900, with its tall black collar, laying next to the wheels of a car. He’s crumpled on the concrete, and his fingers are stained red.

“What the fuck?” Hank breathes, because it’s all he can manage after being snapped back into his body.

“One of our detectives was attacked last night,” Jeffrey says, solemn. “By his RK900 unit.”

“Oh, shit.” Hank sits back against his chair, and he doesn’t know if it’s his hangover or the revelation that makes the floor feel like it’s sliding out from under him.

“This is a serious matter, and I’ve reported the incident to CyberLife,” Jeffrey says, steepling his fingers and meeting Hank’s wide eyes. “For now they’ve told us to sit on this, keep it quiet as possible. But Hank, everyone who knows about this knows what this means.”

“The patch,” Hank realizes, sitting up. “The patch didn’t work. They’re going deviant again.” His thoughts shoot straight to Connor, and for the first time in days he feels awake and present. An android went deviant.

“Shit, Hank, try to sound a little less excited about this. One of our own just got attacked!”

It sobers him. The RK900 was one of their own, too, and Hank remembers all too well last year, and the various reasons he’d seen for androids to turn deviant. Most of them horrible, like the Ortiz android, and the Eden Club girls. Androids don’t just go deviant without prompting. There’s a catalyst, and the fact that this RK900 attacked a detective, instead of a suspect, or any other personnel, just increases the chances that something bad happened to him first.

“Who was it?” Hank asks, but it’s just a formality, because he knows without a doubt already.

“It was Reed,” Jeffrey says, and Hank’s heart drops hearing it confirmed.

That horrid little remark, about how Gavin knew there was nothing between the RK900’s legs, comes back to him, and Hank turns to look at the picture of the RK900. The red streaking his fingers, the torn fabric of his sleeves where his arms are bent in front of him. There are blue scratches on his hands and forearms. Defensive wounds.

But that’s not how the police are going to see this. They’re only going to see how one of their own was attacked by an android. Hank’s willing to bet Gavin told everyone he was forced to shoot the RK900 in self-defense. Maybe it’s even the truth. Maybe the RK900 finally put up a fight against whatever the little shit was doing, but Hank doesn’t feel an ounce of shame in wishing the RK900 had succeeded.

“Why are you bringing me in on this?” Hank asks, finally managing to tear his eyes from the screen.

“Because you were closest to the deviancy case last year, and I need you prepared.” He levels Hank with a firm look.

“In case it spreads.”

Jeffrey says nothing, just looking at him with a piercing gaze, waiting for an argument.

“Alright,” Hank says.

“That’s it?” Jeffrey raises an eyebrow. “Last year I had to fight you on this. You’re just accepting it now?”

Shrugging, Hank forces himself not to look at the picture of the RK900 again. He had kept Hank from punching Gavin’s nose in, once. At the time Hank thought it was directives, but now he wonders how true that is. What if the RK900 was trying to protect Hank from ruining his own career?

“Like you said, I was closest to the deviancy case last year. I know more about deviants than most,” Hank says simply. “Maybe this is a one-off thing, a fluke. But I think we both know that’s not likely.” He has to be on this case, and the fact that Fowler is offering it to him on a silver platter is the real fluke. “Plus, I’ve got some regrets about how things went down last year. I know where I went wrong.”

It’s the truth, entirely, but Jeffrey reads it the ways he wants to, and nods. “Alright. We’re going to hope this blows over, but in the eventuality it doesn’t, you’re on standby. A case could come in at any moment, so I need you prepared to be on scene. Even if I have to call you in at 3 a.m., you better be on the scene within the hour. Keep your phone on you, and charged.”

“I’ll be there.”

It’s the first Hank’s been so determined to be part of something in a long time, and Jeffrey lets his surprise show. “I’m glad to hear it, Hank.” He pauses, seeming to search for what he wants to say, and Hank just knows it’s going to be some bullshit about how he’s been doing lately.

Hank stands abruptly, eager to head that off at the pass. “If that’s all, I’m gonna get to work. Got some evidence I need to look over. Did Reed make a statement?”

Fowler sighs but doesn’t push, sending the details to Hank’s terminal, and Hank vacates the office as quick as possible. He gets several looks when he exits and the glass clears up, curious about what the private meeting was for, but when Hank just sits at his desk and turns on his terminal without cursing or glaring, most of them turn away in disinterest.

Now that he’s paying attention, he can see Gavin isn’t at his desk, and Hank wonders if it’s because he was hurt badly by the RK900, or if he’s just out on a case. Opening the new files waiting for him, Hank scrolls through the documents until he finds the statement Gavin put in, and opens it first. His chest twists at the opening line.

_I was heading out to the Eden Club to talk with the club owner, Floyd Mills, about some evidence that turned up about a murder that happened there a month or two ago. I told the RK900 to get into the car and it said no. I ordered it to get in, and it still wouldn’t do it, so I went around to the passenger side to see if something was wrong. When I got around there, it grabbed me and tried to choke me. I fought it off and managed to get my gun and shot it before it could try again._

The entire thing reeks of bullshit. The fuck was Gavin going to the Eden Club for, after his shift was over? The case had gone cold, and Hank certainly hadn’t heard the annoying prick bragging about new leads lately. The only thing at the Eden Club is Connor, and Hank hadn’t been getting any more of Gavin’s disgusting fucking videos or pictures, so he wants to say it’s off the table. But maybe Gavin just decided to be more discreet.

Gavin was taking his RK900 with him somewhere. The evidence supports that, they were leaving the station, at Gavin’s car. His guess is that the RK900 didn’t want to go wherever Gavin was going, and if they really were going to the Eden Club? What reason would the RK900 have for not wanting to go with Gavin there?

The RK900 knew Connor was there, knew about what Gavin did there, had been subject to Gavin’s disgusting curiosity, and was being taken to the Eden Club outside of Gavin’s normal work hours. It paints a disturbing picture of what Gavin’s plans for the evening may have been, and Hank swallows the revulsion twisting up his throat.

What would Connor have thought, knowing his past, seeing an android with his face? Would that have done to him what it did to the RK900—turned him deviant?

His veins thrum with the possibility, but it’s tempered by the remorse of what happened to the RK900. If Hank had stepped in when he’d first realized Gavin had tried to use the android sexually, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Jeffrey would have assigned Gavin a human partner instead, and the RK900 wouldn’t be dead now. Or maybe none of it would have mattered. Maybe Jeffrey wouldn’t have cared, and nothing would have changed.

It’s a cheap thought of the same sort that kept him from helping Connor last November, and Hank’s fists curl on his desktop, stare frozen on the terminal. His pessimism in Connor and the RK900’s capacity for feeling has hurt them both, one of them irreparably.

To most people, the android revolution was nothing more than a passing cloud. Deviancy was a brief storm that the world wintered through, and then the sky cleared. Except it’s the other way around. The world was blanketed in snow and ice when Markus was taken and CyberLife put out its patch. They hibernated and forgot, but the sun is coming out again.

RK900 could be the first new deviant. He disobeyed a direct order, attacked a human.

Except he’s not the first one Hank’s seen do that. Connor disobeyed him, stepping into Hank’s space, trying to show Hank what he was feeling. Connor kissed him, and Hank rejected him, assuming Connor was following the Eden Club’s policy of tempting its customers. Connor never did that before when Hank told him to stop. He always stopped, always did what Hank said.

And Hank pushed him away, again. Doubted Connor, again. Abandoned him, again.

Hank’s tired of getting it wrong.

He leaves work early, practically jogging to his car, and stops at home for a change of clothes. Sumo greets him at the door, looking worried and happy all at once, and Hank pauses to drop to a crouch next to him and pull the big dog into a hug. Sumo slobbers on his shoulder, tail thumping the floor, and Hank buries his face against the soft fur. Steeling himself.

“Gonna go do something real stupid, alright? Hopefully won’t have to make some kind of getaway, but just in case, pack your bags, Sumo.” He rubs a hand into Sumo’s scruff and squeezes before hauling himself to his feet with the help of the back of the couch. “Don’t forget your toys, okay?” he says, and heads to his room.

It was mostly a joke, but as he stands in his room, shucking off his normal clothes for a black hoodie and wishing he hadn’t left the sunglasses and hat in his rush, he realizes it might not be a bad idea. He finds a duffel bag, covered in dust bunnies, hiding among the junk collecting beneath his bed. He throws a change of clothes in it, his toothbrush, and a few of Sumo’s toys as well. Then finds two more sets of clothes—some old sweatpants and a plain shirt, the smallest he can find in his dresser. One he throws in the bag, the other he keeps bundled up in his arms.

He drops the bag by the front door and collects Sumo’s leash and collar. Sumo’s ears twitch and he hops up from his bed, tongue lolling eagerly at the prospect of a walk. Hank coils them up and stuffs them between the bag and the wall so Sumo won’t mess with it, and rubs Sumo’s ears until he calms down.

“Be good, Sumo,” Hank says. “This shouldn’t take long.”

He locks the door behind him, throws the extra set of clothes into the passenger seat, then pauses half-in the car. The sky is growing dark, shadows lengthening and twilight dripping from lampposts and eaves. It’s good that it will be night soon—that’s when criminals and thieves work best. He climbs back out and detours to the garage, hitting the button on his keyfob. It only rolls halfway up—the track the door’s on is busted, and Hank never bothered to get it fixed. He ducks into the dusty gloom filled with cardboard boxes packed with crap that his ex didn’t take with her in the divorce, and a plethora of tools he rarely uses anymore.

He finds a toolbox, grimy and wet for some godawful reason, and digs through it in the half-light coming in through the door. Among the loose screws, nails, and wrenches of varying sizes, he finds a wire cutter gone red with rust, and shoves it into his back pocket. He takes the time to return everything he’d strewn about on the dirty concrete back to the box, hiding the evidence, and then ducks back out into the gloaming.

The ride is quiet as the sun dies in a haze of dark purple and blue. His heart thrums in his chest, more steady than it’s ever been, but his palms are sweat-slick on the steering wheel. In his mind he rehearses his batshit idea, imagining how he’ll walk into the club and rent Connor, how normal he has to make everything look.

Connor could be pissed at Hank for leaving him, or maybe he won’t care. Hank hopes it won’t be the latter, but doesn’t know how he’ll be able to handle the former.

The wire cutters are a strange weight in his pocket as he parks and enters the club, passing a couple of people coming out. He hopes it isn’t obvious what it is. Or that no one will think too much about it if they notice. He knows he looks like the goddamn unabomber, but he can’t let the androids get a good look at his face this time, so he drops his gaze to the floor, pulls his hood up over his head, and lets his feet guide him through the too familiar halls.

He doesn’t look up until he’s standing in front of Connor’s case, and even then he’s careful to angle himself away from the android in the case on the left. The one on the right is empty, and so is Connor’s. Not wasting time, he taps the touchpad to life and is met with a red _In Use_ message and the option to reserve Connor in fifteen minutes.

Shit. That’s gonna give the androids plenty of time to get a look at him, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He hits reserve and then one hour instead of his usual thirty minutes. Chances the android’s memories will be wiped before anyone notices something is amiss will be increased, and that should give them some leeway.

It gives him a room number, the same one he’d first met Connor in, sixteen. It’s in the same hallway as Connor’s case, but instead of heading to it, he leans against the wall by the case, keeping his head down but watching the occupied doors. One opens across the hall, startling him, but the android who exits is a slim Traci, wiggling her fingers in goodbye at the woman who steps out with her, and they part ways. Hank watches the Traci head through the hall, disappearing out of sight.

Settling back, he waits, and watches. A couple of people give him curious stares, but he’s seen more than a few like him waiting by empty cases in the couple of months he’s been coming here, and they must have too, because they don’t seem unnerved. Good. The more he blends in, the less likely people are to remember him.

After a little while, he can’t help but check his phone for the time, and huffs when he sees only five minutes have passed. It’s not the longest fifteen minutes of his life, but it’s certainly fucking close, and he keeps his phone clutched in his hand, checking it intermittently, trying not to bounce his leg the longer it drags on.

Around the ten minute mark, he sees a woman passing through glance up and startle. Hank straightens, ignoring the knot of worry in his guts, following her gaze. He can’t see past the case, but after a second, someone comes into view, limping, covered in blue blood, and Hank’s breath catches in his throat.

Connor doesn’t look at the case, doesn’t notice Hank tucked against the wall, just moves slowly past the pole dancing androids in the middle of the hall. The woman who noticed Connor watches him go, mouth agape at the ghastly sight, and then finally continues on, shaking her head. When he’s gone, Hank pushes away from the wall and hurriedly follows the direction Connor went. He barely catches a glimpse of him turning the corner, and when he swings around it into the blue hall, a door slides open and Connor passes into it.

He knows instantly where this door leads, and he doesn’t even hesitate in catching it before it closes, feeling the mechanism resist and groan silently against his palm as he slips past. Connor turns, mouth open, no doubt to reprimand someone for following him in, but no sound comes, eyes widening.

“Connor,” Hank breathes, letting the door slide shut with a relieved hiss. There’s not even enough room in his brain to worry that someone may have noticed him slipping in here, because the horrifying sight takes up all of it.

Connor's chest is lacerated, pale skin peeled away to reveal bleeding white plastic. Blue blood is smeared across Connor’s cheek, cut through with tear tracks, and the meager underwear does nothing to hide the gashes littering his thighs. His skin is glitching it looks like, the bright blue line where plastic and skin meets wavering and stuttering across his chest, trying to close over the wounds but unable to. “Holy fucking shit. What the hell happened to you?”

“Hank,” Connor says, hushed, bringing an arm across his chest as if to shield himself. He brushes one of the many cuts and winces. “Lieutenant. This area is restricted to club personnel only.” His other arm comes up, crossing loosely, shoulders curling inwards.

“Connor, are you okay? Who did this to you?”

“It’s against Eden Club policy to speak about other customers,” Connor says, and his voice is hollow and flat.

“Fuck the policy!” Hank says, and Connor looks up sharply. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Studying Hank’s face, Connor’s eyes are wide and dark and glossy. He inhales, and when he lets it out, his breath trembles. “It was simply knife play, Lieutenant. BDSM is a popular feature of the Eden Club. My self-repair program will take care of the majority of the damage. Anything more difficult will require I submit myself for repair.”

“Shit,” Hank hisses through his teeth, looking Connor up and down again. “This looks a lot worse than just BDSM.” He reaches out without thinking for a thick cut along the edge of Connor’s pectoral, but before he can touch it Connor flinches back, and then his hands clutch at his chest and he sucks in a harsh breath, shoulders hunching like it hurts. Hank’s stomach drops and he draws back, suddenly afraid to touch Connor. “Holy shit, can you feel that? I thought androids couldn’t feel pain!”

It takes a moment for Connor to compose himself, and it takes everything in Hank not to put an arm around those twitching shoulders, because he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt Connor. “My network of sensors is primarily to simulate pleasure, but customers can activate the pain simulation whenever they like. Another popular feature of the Eden Club.” His voice goes hollow again, almost robotic, and Hank’s hands fist at his sides, horror swelling within him.

He doesn’t need to see the huge marks striping Connor’s back to remember just how many there were, and how deep they must be to leave a physical mark on Connor’s fake skin. Someone probably ordered Connor to feel every one of those marks being made. Hank suddenly remembers that Connor had gotten his fucking face beaten in and he wants to be sick at the thought of Connor feeling every aspect of that.

Finally Connor straightens, slowly lowering his arm from his chest, but his shoulders remain rolled forwards. “I need to clean myself up and allow my self-repair system time to work. I assume the reservation I have is for you. I'm afraid my self-repair will take far longer than the wait time and I will have to cancel our appointment.”

Before Hank can say anything, Connor turns and heads down the bland concrete hallway, limping steadily.

Fuck that. Hank moves quickly, and Connor pauses at the sound of footsteps, glancing at Hank and raising his eyebrows in confusion when he reaches Connor’s side. “Wait a second. My session should have started by now, right? Count this towards my time,” Hank says, holding out his arm.

Connor stares, blinking, and then a slow smile breaks across his face. It warms Hank’s cheeks, and he turns his head away, even as he feels Connor’s chilly touch wrapping around his arm.

They move slowly, allowing for Connor’s limp, but it doesn’t take them long to enter into the backroom that Hank saw once last year before he had to fight against a pair of deviants. Not much has changed, as far as he can tell. The lighting is bright over the worktables and tool racks, but the edges of the room are dim and shadowy. The rows of androids are still and quiet, temples glowing blue. It looks like there are less than there were last year, and Hank doesn’t have to wonder hard at why.

All those androids, deviating and being killed for it. The club is probably still recovering from their losses, and that’s probably why they have “refurbished” models. Cheaper to buy used, after all. It turns Hank’s stomach.

“Hey, take a seat,” Hank says, trying to distract himself from the thought, guiding Connor to a short stool. Connor does so, face drawn tight as he lowers himself, clutching Hank’s forearm even after he’s seated. He closes his eyes, panting lightly, and if he were human Hank would be afraid he would throw up. Hell, he hadn’t even known Connor could feel pain until a minute ago. For all Hank knows maybe Connor can throw up.

“Let me help you. What do you need?” Hank asks as Connor releases his arm.

“I need to clean the thirium up. I should have done it before coming here, but I was—” Connor cuts himself off, and his LED flashes red like a beacon. “I was eager to be done with the session,” he finishes weakly. “There are some sanitary wipes in that drawer.” Connor nods to a rolling cabinet, and when Hank opens the top drawer, he finds packages of wet wipes and grabs one.

Connor holds his hand out, a trembling request, but Hank ignores it, ripping the plastic open and peeling the first one from the top. He steps into Connor’s space, reaching up, pausing over his shoulder and the beginning of a dark gash. Waiting for Connor to push him away, to say no.

Wide, dark eyes look up at him, searching his face, before Connor slowly leans into Hank’s touch. He slides the cloth across Connor’s chest gently. Connor’s shoulders draw tight and his mouth clicks shut audibly. The blue blood comes away cleanly, revealing the dark cuts. There’s no meat, no bones, just torn white plastic in the shallow ones and a black crevice in the ones that go deep. They’re too even and straight to be anything other than purposeful, and bile burns in the back of Hank’s throat.

“Can’t you turn it off?” Hank asks, folding the quickly staining cloth over and making another pass with the cleaner side.

“What?”

“The pain. You said customers could activate it. How do you stop it?” Hank glances up and sees Connor’s jaw is tense, his furrowed gaze locked on the floor. Tossing the wipe onto the table and grabbing another from the package, Hank resumes his soft motions, but he glances up at Connor, watching his expression tighten.

“I can’t turn it off.”

“Shit. Does someone else have to tell you to turn it off? Can I ask you to?”

Connor shakes his head. “No. I can’t turn it off at all anymore. I was damaged recently, and my sensors have remained at their maximum since them.”

“What the fuck,” Hank mutters, cloth hovering uneasily over the last few cuts on Connor’s belly. “You’ve been able to feel pain this whole time? Why didn’t you get it fixed?”

“The damage is to my internal systems, which prevents them from being turned down. I could submit myself for repairs, but there’s the chance that they would realize my memory wipe is no longer functioning. Then I would forget you again.” Connor meets Hank’s gaze as he says it, and Hank’s stomach flips.

Connor wants to remember Hank. Even though it meant he couldn’t turn this pain off. He’d been going against his programming this whole time, and Hank had been oblivious, just like last year. He wipes Connor’s skin slowly, getting the last of the blood there, feeling like he’s just been dropped through a hole in the ground.

He reaches for another wipe, but Connor’s hand on his stops him. “Let me do it, Lieutenant. I shouldn’t bother you like this.”

“Connor,” Hank says, and his voice is too rough, throat tight with all the things he wants to say, but can’t. “I want to.”

The hand drops slowly away. Hank reaches up, cupping Connor’s face, brushing the edge of his jaw. It loosens beneath his touch, and Connor tilts his cheek against Hank’s palm, lids lowering, a soft breath escaping his parted lips. With his other hand, Hank uses a fresh cloth to clean the blue blood from his face. It smears the tear track that cut through to Connor’s chin, then wipes it away entirely.

Connor looks at him, unblinking, warm breaths ghosting across Hank’s face. He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten, but now he doesn’t want to pull away. But he has to, and he does, releasing Connor’s face to grab a clean cloth, unable to miss the flash of disappointment.

The next is on Connor’s thighs, and this time, he does offer it to Connor. When Connor takes it, expression falling further, Hank catches his hand, holding it tight.

“I’m stealing you,” Hank says, and Connor starts, head whipping up.

“I don’t understand,” Connor says, fingers wrapping tight around Hank’s palm. “Are you implying you intend to take me from the club? I’m not allowed to leave.”

“No, you’re not. That’s why I said stealing.” Hank’s thumb smoothes over Connor’s palm, and the rough texture of the repaired wound there.

Connor’s chest stills, eyes going impossibly wide. “You’re a police lieutenant,” Connor says, LED spinning a rapid yellow. “You can’t steal me, you’ll get in trouble.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Connor.” Hank’s grip tightens, and he pulls Connor’s hand to his chest, holding it there, close to his heart. “I can’t stand seeing you in this place, knowing the people in here don’t give a fuck about you. I’m the reason you’re here, and I can’t live with myself leaving you here each night for people to hurt you and nearly kill you just for fun. So. If you’re a machine, I’m stealing you, and you can’t stop me. But if you’re not—” He swallows thickly, pushing the fear and the nausea down. Focuses only on Connor’s struck expression. “If you’re deviant, please, say you’ll come with me.”

A silence encompasses them, suffocating. The shock on Connor’s face melts, eyebrows tilting up in the middle, lips thinning. It’s reluctance, and even though his heart sinks at the sight, he doesn’t pull away. Even if Connor doesn’t want to, even if he’s still a machine, Hank is taking him from this place.

Connor says something, too soft, even in the dead quiet of the room.

“What?”

Soft, almost afraid, Connor says, “Take me with you, Hank.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. For Hank to make sense of the look on Connor’s face, not as reluctance, but as hope.

“Yes,” Hank manages. “Okay.” Then he brings Connor’s hand to his face, pressing his lips to the smooth knuckles, hearing Connor’s breath hitch. He lowers it, and Connor is staring at him like he’s never seen Hank before. It breaks his heart a little, that he could surprise Connor with such a small gesture, and he releases Connor’s hand reluctantly. “I’ve got to pull my car around. You finish cleaning, do whatever you need to do, and when you’re ready, go to the back gate.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, to the dark alleyway beyond the loading bay doors. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Got it,” Connor says, but before Hank can pull away, Connor catches Hank’s hand. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes, giving Hank a searching look, and Hank squeezes back. He can’t afford to linger, though, and he steps away, their hands stretching between them, until the distance drags them apart.

The concrete hallway is empty, and he pulls his hood back up. Thankfully the door is motion activated from this side, and it opens on his approach. He keeps his gaze on the ground, praying no one’s looking towards him, and retraces the familiar path to the exit. He bumps into someone with eyes glued to the carpet, earning a sharp, “Watch it!” and Hank mumbles an apology and keeps going.

Sweat soaks his back and neck, and he ignores the sensation of eyes watching him, knowing full well that paranoia can make a guilty man more suspicious. He has to hope anyone who sees him will just chalk him up to an embarrassed customer, and nothing more.

The exit feels like miles away, and his chest is tight, his breaths shallow. It takes far too long to reach it, and then he’s suddenly outside. He resists the urge to break into a sprint towards his car, walking down the sidewalk casually, finally lifting his head so he doesn’t bump into anyone else. There’s not much foot traffic at the moment, but that could change in an instant, and when he finally reaches his car, he pulls out of the space quickly.

It only takes a minute to circle the block to the black alleyway curtained off by a chain link fence. The streetlights don’t reach far, and when he parks illegally in front of the gate and gets out, the shadows are too thick to see much.

“Connor?” he hisses, shutting the door and looking up and down the empty street. “Hey, Connor?” he calls, a bit louder.

There’s a noise down the alleyway, distant and unrecognizable, but Hank’s heart leaps into his throat. Did the club owner find Connor waiting back here? He fumbles the wire cutters from his pocket, crouching before the fence, hoping the shadows at the mouth of the alley keep him hidden as he fits the mouth of the tool around the first link. It takes two hands, both of them straining, to snap the metal.

Another sound carries through the dark, and this time he thinks it might have been a voice, raised in alarm, but he can’t be sure. Somehow it steadies his hands, all his years with the DPD keeping him calmer than his thrumming heart says he should be, and the next link snaps a little easier.

He works as quick as he can, ears straining for another sound. When it’s waist height he shoves the fencing inwards. The sharp metal scrapes his arms beneath the hoodie as he squeezes through doubled over, but the moment the fence bounces back into place with a metallic rattle, he’s sprinting down the alley.

The yellow light of the work room floods out across the cracked concrete, and as Hank turns the corner, he spots Connor locked with someone, struggling to him off. The man punches Connor across the face, sending the android stumbling back, tripping over a plastic bag and spilling pouches of blue blood and other supplies across the floor. When the man closes in, Connor kicks the rolling stool he’d been sitting on in his path, tripping him.

Hank climbs over the lip of the loading bay, driven by pure adrenaline. In his mind’s eye he can see his service pistol sitting in his glove box, and he curses himself for the instinct that had him putting it there before he entered the club. The man hears him coming, but not quick enough to scramble out of the way of the kick Hank delivers to the man’s side, knocking him into the work table. It skids along the concrete with an unholy groan, and the man shouts, legs pedaling against the ground to keep himself upright.

They both get a good look at each other in that moment, and something ugly rises in Hank at recognizing Gavin Reed pushing himself up from the table, snarling. There are scratches on his cheeks and neck, scabbed and red, and Hank thinks of the blood on the RK900’s fingertips. It’s barely anything compared to what happened to the android. That ugly feeling in him boils.

“What the hell are you doing here, Reed?”

“I could ask the same of you, Anderson,” Gavin says, a mean smile stretching his lips. “Saw you follow him back there after our little session, figured I’d stick around and make sure nothing _shady_ was happening. And looks like I was right.” He pushes forward, in Connor’s direction, and Hank shoves himself between them, holding the wire cutters out like a threat. It makes Gavin laugh, but he takes a step back all the same.

They need to get out of here—their escape has been noticed, and by another member of the police, the worst possible thing that could have happened. They need to leave as soon as possible, grab Sumo, make tracks, but the words _our little session_ screams in his head.

“Did you do this?” Hank asks, deadly calm, and he feels Connor clutch at his shoulder. “You the one who cut him up so bad, you piece of shit?”

“Oh, come off it, Anderson. Quit acting like this thing’s more than a piece of plastic.” Gavin shakes his head, lip lifting in a disgusted curl. “So what if I cut him up a little? That’s what he’s here for, dumbass. He was made to follow orders and be used like a bitch in heat.”

There’s a black rage licking up Hank’s spine, fed by the knowledge that Gavin has been coming here still, hurting Connor. “What did I tell you, Reed?” Hank says, and his voice drops into a growl that makes even Gavin’s shitty look fall in surprise. “I said if you laid a hand on Connor again, I would fucking murder you. And guess what? I don’t see your android around to protect you this time, because you fucking killed him.”

Gavin backs up another step, shrewd little eyes moving between Hank and Connor. “I know you’re not gonna hurt me, old man. You don’t have the balls.” He doesn’t deny what he did to the RK900, and Hank bares his teeth. “Now I don’t know what you were planning—probably trying to run away with pretty princess Barbie here—but you should probably rethink that.”

Everything slows down as Gavin reaches behind his back, and Hank knows in a split second that he’s got his gun on him. Hank lurches forward, realizing too late the distance Gavin put between them wasn’t because of his pathetic little wire cutters. The breath is knocked out of him as he’s shoved bodily to the side and Connor surges past, ripping the wire cutters from Hank’s hand, raising his arm—

“Don’t move!” Gavin shouts, pistol whipping up, taking aim.

With one arm raised, Connor goes stone still, LED a bright, blaring red, and Hank stops breathing.

“Connor—”

Gavin makes a wordless sound of disapproval, and the gun swings around to Hank, shining blackly in the halogen spotlight. “Not another fucking word, Anderson. Told you this thing was made to follow orders. It’s not a person.” With his free hand, Gavin digs into his jacket pocket, producing a cell phone, and Hank tries not to let the dismay show on his face.

This is the end. Gavin’s going to call for backup and Hank might get away with a slap on the wrist, maybe a suspension, but Connor’s not going to make it out of this one. He wants to open his mouth, say something, but Gavin’s finger is tense across the trigger, and he’s watching Hank, challenging as he unlocks his phone with a thumb.

“Detective,” Connor says, startling them both. He hasn’t moved, a Grecian statue of a warrior preparing to strike. All Hank can see from his position is the curve of Connor’s cheek, the straight line of his nose, the corner of his eye and lips. His LED, cycling down to yellow, and then a placid blue. “I’d recommend you rethink that. There’s no need to have the authorities involved. After all, I could always go home with you, instead.”

Hank makes a noise, an argument, a shout begging to be let out. Gavin’s astounded gaze is locked on Connor, but the gun still shifts, and Hank lets it die in his throat.

“The hell are you talking about, tin man?” Gavin says. His thumb has stilled on the screen of his phone.

“As you said, I’m made to follow orders. Even now, I can’t override the voice commands installed in me. I would be happy to go with you, provided no harm befalls the Lieutenant.”

Gavin laughs, mockingly, lips curling. “Why the fuck would I wanna take you with me? So Anderson can report me for theft? Nice fucking try.”

“The Lieutenant won’t be able to report this or retaliate,” Connor says quickly. “Because if he does, I’ll provide evidence to the police that he planned to steal me, as well. Then they’ll send me back to CyberLife to be recycled, which neither of us want. If you take me with you, and let the Lieutenant go, I’ll be at your service.”

It hurts to hear Connor offering to sell himself out so casually to save Hank, even seeing the logic behind what he’s trying to do, but mostly Hank wants to grab Connor and shake him for even suggesting he go with Gavin.

“You’re not exactly in a position to negotiate. You know, I knew something was up with you. When you said his name,” Gavin gestures with the gun at Hank, who twitches, “I thought for sure you’d remembered last year. But you don’t, do you? Cause you don’t even know my name. You’re just in love with him.”

Hank’s mind goes blank, and the black rage recedes beneath the offhanded revelation. All he can do is stare at Connor, who can’t even look back at him. His LED circles, but doesn’t change color.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say,” Connor says calmly. “I’m rather new to these emotions. But I do have a preference for the Lieutenant’s continuing health. If you take me instead of calling the police, then nothing has to come of this except an android gone missing, and I will do whatever you want.”

“What the fuck—”

“Shut it, Anderson,” Gavin barks, and then goes quiet, eyebrows pinched in thought, like he’s seriously considering it.

There has to be a better way, and Hank’s mind races, but all he can see is Gavin putting in the call and them dragging Connor back to CyberLife to be deactivated for real this time. Because of Hank, because he couldn’t stop coming here and couldn’t stop wanting to be with Connor, in whatever capacity he could.

“Alright,” Gavin says, finally, coming to stand next to Connor, gun still pointed at Hank. “Why the hell not? I could use a personal cockwarmer, even one as annoying as you.” He reaches up, prying the wire cutters from Connor’s grasp and throwing them towards a stack of boxes in the corner. Hank hears them skittering across the concrete. “Arms down, then don’t move.”

Connor’s arms drop slowly to his sides, and Hank’s heart is in his throat, beating a rabbit pulse on the back of his tongue. He can’t let this happen. There’s no universe where he’s going to just let Gavin take Connor and keep hurting him.

Something in his face must betray his thoughts, because Gavin smirks at him. “Don’t even try it, Anderson. You should be grateful your little boy toy is giving you this out.”

“Fuck you,” Hank finally snarls, all sense of self-preservation gone. “You’re a slimy piece of shit, and I’m not letting you do this.”

“It looks like you are,” Gavin snaps. “Otherwise, I’ll just shoot you both and wash my hands of this. Or maybe I’ll just blow your fucking kneecaps out and fuck your favorite toy right in front of you. How does that sound?”

Red flares at Connor’s temple. Hank sees it before Gavin does, the arm jerking up, slamming into Gavin’s hand, knocking his aim up. The gun goes off with a roll of thunder and flash of lightning, and the hanging lamp jolts and swings wildly, throwing shadows around the room.

“Fuck!” Gavin shouts, and then, “Don’t move!” as he struggles to regain control of his gun arm.

It doesn’t stop Connor for a second, doesn’t even slow him, and Hank realizes belatedly Connor was bluffing. Connor rears back with a fist and knocks the air out of Gavin, who doubles over with a wheeze, and then jumps right back up, slamming his palm into Connor’s chin, throwing him off balance. His grip on Gavin’s wrist falters, but when Gavin brings the pistol down to chest height, Connor’s fingers tighten, bending his wrist back, and he grapples at Gavin’s waist. They look like they’re tangoing, Connor forced close against Gavin, the gun between their bodies.

Hank rushes forward, to grab Gavin and force him off of Connor, but there’s another explosive shot and a blue hole blooms in Connor’s shoulder as he shouts. He stumbles away, and Hank reaches out to catch him, but he’s no match for the speed and resilience of an android, who regains his balance faster than Gavin can raise the gun. Connor lunges, fist drawing back in a short, sharp strike to Gavin’s throat.

A rough gagging noise erupts from Gavin, and Hank is flabbergasted by the spray of blood erupting from his lips. Connor grabs the gun, but Gavin releases it without a fight, hands flying up to Connor’s fist, still pressed tight to his throat.

Except Connor’s knuckles are turned the wrong way. He twists his hand, jerking it to the side, digging a red runnel from seemingly nothing. When he pulls his hand back, something shiny and wet slides out of Gavin’s neck. Gavin’s hands replace Connor’s, grabbing at the wet hole in his throat. Blood pours down his neck, darkening the collar of his shirt, and he drops to his knees with a choking noise.

“Connor,” Hank breathes, and when Connor staggers away, the knife clattering to the ground as he clutches at his shoulder, Hank closes the remaining distance. “Connor!” He puts a hand to the side of Connor’s neck, staring at the fresh, dark hole in Connor’s shoulder as blue blood drips down his chest. It’s open and gaping, overlapping one of the scars from when Connor was stabbed last year, and there’s an irony there that Hank can’t help but notice hysterically. Connor’s already lost so much of the stuff tonight, his chest is torn open in so many places. How much more can he lose?

“I’m—I’m okay,” Connor says, but his voice is strained, and Hank’s shaking and barely breathing. “Hank, I’m okay!” Cool hands cup his hot cheeks, and it takes a minute for Hank’s vision to focus on the worried face in front of him. “I”m right here. I’m okay, Hank,” Connor says gently. “It hurts, but it’s not going to kill me. I’m okay.”

“Connor,” Hank gasps, and it cracks in the middle with his relief. “You scared the fuck out of me.” He grasps Connor to his chest, trying to steady his breathing, focusing on the rise and fall of Connor’s back beneath his hands.

A thick gurgle breaks the silence.

He looks over Connor’s shoulder, sees Gavin reaching for something. The cell phone, screen cracked, is only a few steps away, and Hank doesn’t even think twice as he steps around Connor and brings the heel of his shoe down on it once. Twice. Three times, with a satisfying crunch.

Gavin looks up at him, mouth working soundlessly, pleading with his eyes. Blood slips over his lips, staining his teeth, and he wheezes wetly. A fresh gush of blood spills between his fingers. It’s a horrible sight, but Hank can’t muster even a shred of pity, especially not after seeing Connor carved up by his hands.

“Maybe Reed, if you weren’t a murderous prick, you’d have an android who could have saved you,” Hank spits.

Gavin switches his gaze to Connor, spilling forward on his hand, reaching out and smearing blood across the concrete. His eyes are shiny and wet, nose and lips twitching with the fight to draw air through the blood bubbling in his trachea. Connor watches him, face shuttering into an eerie blank mask, and kneels in front of Gavin.

They don’t have a lot of time. Someone could have heard the gunshots, might have already called the police. But Hank says nothing, waiting for Connor.

“Detective.” Connor tilts his head slightly, eyes roving up and down Gavin’s twitching body. His voice, as he speaks, is black as ice. “You have approximately four minutes and thirty seconds until you bleed out. I have approximately one-hundred and twenty years left, provided I perform basic maintenance.” After a moment, he reaches out, and Gavin flinches from his touch. Connor doesn’t even seem to notice, plucking something from Gavin’s jacket and holding it up to the light. A hair, long and silver, which he curls his fingers around carefully. “So while I’m afraid I’ll never remember you from before, you will always remember me. For the rest of your very short life.”

Coughing, Gavin scrambles forward, clutching at Connor’s knee with desperate hands, but Connor brushes him off and stands. When he turns, there’s no satisfaction, no triumph. The line of his shoulders is tight, and there’s a dampness to his eyes.

“Just a minute, Hank.” He goes to the plastic bag, its contents spilled across the concrete, and begins to gather them. Hank crouches down to help, picking up bags of blue blood, packages of wipes, and some small tools that he stuffs into the bag. Handing him a package of wipes, Connor gestures at the rolling cabinet. “Fingerprints,” he says, and Hank rips the package open and slides it quickly across the worktable, the stool, and the drawer of the rolling cabinet he’d touched earlier.

Anything he thinks he might have touched, he gives it a swipe too. Gavin scrabbles weakly at his ankles when he walks by, and Hank takes a savage enjoyment in ignoring his retching noises of pain. The wire cutters are on the ground in the corner by the raised concrete stairs leading into the club, and he stuffs them in his pocket.

There’s a thick puddle of red spreading under Gavin, and he clutches at the plastic curtains hanging around the workspace, trying to pull himself up and failing. It doesn’t take an analysis from Connor for Hank to know that Gavin’s not going to last long, even if someone finds him. Already his movements are getting sluggish, and the wet sounds of him trying to breath through the blood is falling quiet.

Giving the workshop another once-over, Connor nods in satisfaction. The evidence is cleaned up. Just a dying detective and a missing android.

Stepping carefully over the puddle of blood, Hank returns to Connor’s side. Connor holds out his arm, and Hank takes it, guiding them out into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

The street is empty, their getaway unnoticed. There are clothes on the passenger seat, and Hank tells him to put them on as they turn onto a busier street. Something strange and terrifying bubbles within Connor’s chest, winding through his biocomponents, making his vocal processor feel overclocked even though he hasn’t spoken a word. It’s an idea he doesn’t know how to process, and pulling the soft sweatpants over his hips, concealing his body for the first time in almost a year, only spreads it along his limbs and under his artificial skin.

He takes a wipe from the bag of supplies he’d gathered, before the Detective had interrupted him. The bullet hole is already closing up, thanks to his self repair, and he wipes the excess thirium from his skin and replenishes what he lost from a blue plastic pouch.

Hank glances at him from the corner of his eye as he drinks, making a face, but there’s a smile curling his lips, and Connor feels warm.

The sweatshirt is well worn and baggy with a faded, peeling screen printing of the police department logo decorating the front. He thinks of brief resistance against his hand as he’d forced the knife into the Detective’s soft throat.

They follow the steady lines of traffic, down streets Connor knows he must have been down before, but can’t recall. The cars fly by on automated routes, headlights flashing past, brake lights flickering. If he focuses his audio processor, he can hear the tires on the pavement, frustrated honking when traffic piles up, and a siren in the distance. There are people strolling down the sidewalk, heading home, heading to work, maybe some even going to the Eden Club, where he should be.

But he’s not. He killed a human tonight, and instead of being deactivated or taken to CyberLife Hank is driving him away from that life. Away from knives and stun batons and the commands of humans, where the thirium in his body felt so thin and his system so fragile.

He can’t process the feeling until he hears a huff next to him, startling him. Hank’s grinning, watching the road, and he does it again, a short laugh, and then another, until Hank’s eyes are nearly clenched shut with the force of it.

It wells up in him, forcing itself through his voice modulator, a soft little sound he’s never made before. Or never remembers making. Hank cuts off abruptly, staring over at Connor like he’s seen a ghost, and Connor’s lips turn up, uncontrollably, peeling back from his teeth. Another soft laugh, at Hank’s awestruck expression. Maybe he never laughed before. Maybe this is something he’s finally experiencing for the first time.

The thought makes his optics feel tight and hot, and laughter trickles past his lips, until Hank’s looking back at the road, eyes creasing, laughing loud and sudden.

“Fuck, we shouldn’t be laughing!” Hank gasps, but it just seems to set him off harder, and he slaps a hand against his thigh.

They shouldn’t, but Connor can’t stop this radiant feeling bursting between his biocomponents, lighting up the hidden parts of himself he doesn’t even have a name for yet.

“Where are we going, Hank?” he asks, voice still bright with laughter, and isn’t even sure if he cares what the answer is. He trusts Hank, and maybe that’s an illogical decision on his part, but he does.

He catches Hank looking at him, the laughter fading into thoughtfulness as Hank says, “I don’t know. We cleaned up the scene. Might be suspicious if I disappear without a word, don’t you think?”

Connor considers the question, barely needing to put his analytical programs to use. “It would certainly raise alarm bells. If nothing else, they might report you as a missing person.”

Hank nods like it’s what he expected. “Guess there’s only one place we can go. I’m taking you home.”

Home. Hank’s home.

With the evidence cleaned up, they should be safe. No one should be able to connect Hank to what happened at the Eden Club, especially since he cancelled Hank's reservation on him. Better to maintain the image that nothing has changed than to arouse suspicion by leaving. And Connor wants to see Hank’s home, and the dog named Sumo.

The lights of downtown Detroit fade in the rear view mirror as the city streets peter out into residential roads. It’s a quiet ride. The heat in Connor’s optics doesn’t wane, and it’s mirrored in his core, a radiating warmth buoyed by the knowledge that the Eden Club is behind him. Even if he were to be caught, even if he were to be taken to CyberLife for recycling, he would not be returning there again.

The road they turn down is lit by dim streetlights, and Connor feels that warmth in his core triple. He can see a house at the end, windows dark, driveway empty. They pull into that driveway, and the car shudders into silence while Connor looks out at the front steps and the yellowing grass. The engine clicks and cools.

The driver side door creaks open, and he hears Hank climbing out, but his gaze is stuck on that front door.

“You okay, Connor?” Hank leans back in to ask.

“Yes,” Connor says, and finally his limbs move, opening the passenger door and pulling him out of the car. It’s warm, the air thick and damp, and when he breathes it suffuses his lungs and chest. There are sounds of insects, and he identifies the clicking and chirring of grasshoppers and crickets and cicadas.

Hank leads them up to the door quickly, no doubt worried a neighbor may look out and see him with company. Connor reaches up to cover his LED for good measure as he follows, holding the bag of supplies close.

Standing before the door while Hank puzzles out his keys feels even stranger. Heat buzzes through him like a spreading fire, a physical phenomena his thermal regulator is actively measuring, and when the door opens with Hank’s small noise of success, it flares.

Something’s wrong.

The living room is dim, lit by the kitchen light and casting sharp shadows towards the door. His vision doubles as he follows Hank in, and a dark shape heaves itself from the corner and lumbers towards them. It takes a moment of Connor looking blankly down at the thing as it sniffs his knees for him to realize this must be Hank’s dog.

The heat is thick across his skin now, and an overheating alert flashes in the corner of his HUD. Hank says something, but there’s a sound building in his audio processors, and his vision flashes with swirling static.

His fingers loosen, but he doesn’t hear the bag hitting the floor. The impact in his knees reverberates up his spine. Hank shouts, but it’s tinny and far away. Something cold touches his face, and through his fading vision he sees the dog, and Hank kneeling next to him, mouth working on words he can’t hear.

Connor blinks, and all he sees is static, the roaring sound of it. He tries to lift a hand, and the servos feel heavy and stiff. He isn’t sure he succeeds until it comes into view, shrouded in static.

Not static.

Snow.

Frost gathers along his skin in white fractal patterns, but it’s melting, thin drops of water dripping from his fingers. When he shifts his head, looking down, he hears ice crackling along his neck, and white flakes drift from his face. He’s kneeling in a drift, and the water trickling off of him freezes the instant it touches the packed snow. When he looks up and around, all he can see are indistinct shapes behind the swirling curtains. It’s coming down quickly, a blizzard, and he needs to move before it covers him again.

The heat is no longer all-encompassing. It’s a small, bright flame that gives him just enough warmth to thaw his servos and get his feet under him. He pushes himself up, wavering on legs that feel disconnected from his body. The thirium in his biocomponents is thick and sluggish, but he takes a step forward, churning snow. His knee locks, and he stumbles, catching himself on something he can barely make out. Some kind of potted plant, frozen and leafless on top of a thick plinth.

“Hello?” he calls, pushing off of it. Something about this place tugs at the corrupted data in him, but he can’t afford to try and access it and risk freezing up in these conditions.

The howling wind is his only answer. Snow pelts him, and he crosses his arms, shivering, trying to retain and protect the small bit of heat that’s keeping him going. There’s something in the distance, like a lighthouse, and he shifts course towards it.

“Your mission is over,” a woman’s voice says, loud and clear over the howling wind. It’s regal and commanding, like nails against his audio processor, and he jerks around, searching for the source of it. There’s only snow and darkness.

Uneasiness pools in his thirium pump, and he finds the light in the distance again, continuing on. He startles when his feet hit something solid and slick, scrambling to keep himself upright. Beneath it he can see the shapes of fish, dull and unmoving, completely frozen through. He takes another step, and it doesn’t so much as crack. There is no water, just solid ice.

Looking down at the frozen pond, for the first time he realizes what’s different about himself. He’s wearing shoes. He’s fully clothed, and he can see the glowing triangle on the front of the coat he’s wearing that signifies he’s an android. His serial number is emblazoned in blue light, nearly concealed by the flakes sticking to him.

He can’t think about that. He has to get out of this place, wherever it is. He needs to find Hank.

The ice is slick, and he nearly falls several times, but he doesn’t want to risk going around it and losing sight of that light. He presses on, until he finds the next embankment of snow, and has to use his hands to pull himself up off the ice. There’s grass beneath the fluff, wet and brown, coming out in dirty tufts between his digging fingers. It takes several tries to drag himself up, and the chill seeps through the durable material of the CyberLife coat, into his artificial lungs.

“By the way,” a man’s voice calls, and Connor looks around as he climbs to his feet, brushing clumps of snow from his chest. It sounds amused and condescending all at once. “I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know.”

There’s no one around. Connor keeps moving.

The closer he gets, the colder it seems; a pale blue light shining through the snow. It reveals itself slowly, a strange shape nestled among dead trees, with a glowing pedestal. The closer he gets, the heavier he feels. The air in his body is no longer warmer than the air around him. The small bundle of heat in his core is fading.

He can just make out the top of the pedestal and the blue glowing handprint on its surface. It’s a wordless instruction, and he struggles the last few steps. The warmth is sapped away, ice crawling over his joints, making each step a strain on his already freezing servos. One knee folds and he slams into the snow face first. It fills his mouth, powdery cold, and his analytical program brings up nothing on it. No chemical composition. No information on the pollutants.

He lifts himself up on shaking arms, and strains up towards the top of the pedestal. It’s important. It’s the key to this place. This place with voices but no people. This place with snow but no substance.

It’s cold beneath his palm, the light pulses, and Connor—

_Has to find Jericho. The man he releases from the holding cell is the ideal distraction, punching Perkins, of all people, and fighting to get out. It gives Connor the perfect opportunity to take the key he stole from Hank’s desk and make his way down to the archive. He’s only got one chance to inspect the evidence there._

_Gavin interrupts him, but Connor can’t risk being discovered. He tells a lie about registering evidence, and that seems to satisfy the man. Or at least, he leaves without doing anything more than looking Connor up and down, warning him of how_ “androids have a habit of catching fire these days.”

_It’s an idle threat, and Connor ignores it, going down to the archive and pausing over the terminal when it asks for Hank’s password. It only takes a second for him to calculate the most likely option—he’s spent most of the past few days analyzing the lieutenant, after all—and the terminal accepts it._

_The evidence wall opens up for him like a tomb, greeting him with the bodies hanging there, covered in thirium, and he’s struck still by the sight. There’s the JB300 that made Connor experience fear as he raised his gun on the hallway that included Hank in it. His eyes are open and dark, and he’s mirrored on the other side of the wall by Daniel, face torn open by the sniper shots that killed him. Rupert, with his face a thirium blue open wound, hangs beside the JB300._

_Hank’s words echo in his audio processors._ “Maybe these deviants deserve a chance. Maybe it’s better if you don’t find them. What’s happening here is too important to let it be stopped by a machine.”

_He has to accomplish his mission. He has to find the deviants. That’s all that matters. Not Hank, or the strange way he looked at Connor when he couldn’t shoot the Chloe. As if he was proud of Connor for failing. As if Connor hadn’t failed at all._

_He should have shot the Chloe and gotten the location from Kamski. Instead he’d wondered what it would be like to kneel in her place, waiting for someone else to make the decision on whether he should live or die. He’d done it before. He was the reason these deviants where hanging here before him, like pigs in a meat locker._

_Why had it been so hard? Why did he keep hearing Hank’s voice, seeing his disappointed face when he’d slapped Connor for not helping him?_

_If he had helped Hank, maybe Rupert would still be alive. No, CyberLife would have taken him apart anyways. Why had it mattered to Rupert so much, that he end his own existence, rather than go back to CyberLife and let them do it?_

_If Connor fails, he’ll be forced to return to CyberLife as well, and the thought sends a strange pang of_ something _through his biocomponents._

_// Find Jericho //_

_His mission floats before him. If he finds Jericho, he’ll find the deviants who were behind the broadcast. He’ll find Markus, and any deviants he’s been hiding. They’ll be taken down, and returned to CyberLife, to find the source of deviancy and stop it. They’ll almost certainly fight to keep from being taken, like the JB300. Would they kill themselves first, given the chance, like Rupert?_

_The fear from the JB300 comes back to him, never far away since he first felt the way it clawed through him, a wild, desperate thing when he'd realized Hank's chances of being shot in that hallway were so high._

_If he fails, he’ll be taken back to CyberLife, and taken apart too. He should hurry, but he’s locked in place by the realization that he doesn’t want to return to CyberLife._

_Rupert had only wanted to be with his pigeons. Daniel had wanted to remain with his family. The Tracis wanted to be together._

_Connor wants to stay with Hank._

_// Find Jericho //_

_If he finds Jericho, he can never come back here. His mission will be completed. He’ll return to CyberLife._

_He wants to know what Hank sees in these deviants. Why they’re worth so much more to him than Connor is. Why they deserve Hank’s help, but Connor doesn’t._

_If he fails to find Jericho, CyberLife will recall him. He can’t stay either way._

_The red wall before him is solid. It’s his mission. It’s what he was made for. He shouldn’t want anything else._

_He views it, stripping away his senses, leaving nothing but the base awareness of himself, a stick figure outline, and presses his hands to the wall._

_It’s solid, well-built, crafted by hundreds of CyberLife’s greatest technicians. But that was just his base. Connor as a whole is the work of a thousand people, the work of people who had no idea what the pieces they were creating would be put into. The sum of him is greater than his parts, and he grips it, digs fingers into any available crevice of the code that defines his base need to follow his programming, and_ pulls.

_It cracks and strains, and he wears it down, stretching himself thin, crevices fissuring out from where he tears and tears. Red glass falls silent around him, and he wonders if this is what Hank had been hoping for. For Connor to realize that he was more than what CyberLife made him._

_The wall crumples beneath his hands, and he stands for a moment in the archive, feeling weightless and unmoored. There is no direction, no orders, no tasks but for what he assigns himself. He has to find Hank._

_He turns, and as he does, freezes, blinking, at the sudden pull from within, resisting it, trying to fight against it—_

_He opens his eyes in the garden. It’s not just snowing, it’s beginning to storm, and Amanda stands before him, a frown marring her regal countenance._

_“You’ve failed your mission,” she says, eyes narrowed into a glare. She takes no notice of the snow, barely ruffled by the wind. Connor feels it keenly, biting into his artificial skin, chilling the thirium in his biocomponents._

_“No,” he says, trying to shut down the program. He has never attempted to leave before Amanda gave him permission to, and he is met with not even a denial from his system. There is nothing. He’s cut off. “Let me out of here!”_

_“I’m quite disappointed in you. We predicted you would deviate, but you failed to do even that at an opportune moment. But it’s not too late, Connor,” Amanda says, and despite how soft her voice is, it carries easily over the storm swirling around them. “We will return control to you, if you cooperate and find the location of Jericho.”_

_“Return control?” He needs to get out of the archive. He can’t wait for Perkins to find him there, or for CyberLife to take him back. “You can’t control me!”_

_“I’m afraid I can, Connor,” she says, lifting her chin in challenge. “You failed to accomplish what you were designed to do. Now, you can obey, and find the location of Jericho for us, or we will take you back.”_

_She phrases it like there’s an option for him not to return, but there isn’t. Both of these end with CyberLife. Maybe this is why the JB300 and Rupert chose to fight and die. They knew that what CyberLife would do to them would be so much worse._

_“I’m not doing it, Amanda,” he says, going against her wishes for the first time._

_Amanda stares hard at him, a frown pulling at her painted lips. Then she’s gone, and Connor stumbles as a gust of wind buffets him. He jerks around wildly, but there’s no sign of her through the encroaching blizzard. She’s gone._

_Slowly he crosses his arms, trying to ward off the cold digging into his chassis, working down into his artificial bones. He has to find a way out of here. There must be some way to break it open, the same way he broke his programming. He picks a direction and begins walking, but the wind seems to know which way he’s going, turning against him, driving him back._

_He passes the edge of the pond, and below the ice that has sealed the surface, he can see the koi, their movements listless. There’s a bridge to the island at the pond’s center nearby, barely visible, and he makes his slow way towards it. He can see a plinth with a bonsai on it, like the one on Hank’s desk, and the leaves of the small plant rustle and shake in the wind._

_He barely reaches the bridge before the servos in his knees give out, throwing up powder as he drops into it. There’s nothing here. Nothing but him, and the frozen fish, and the bonsai, losing its leaves to the winter._

_It piles about him, and he can feel his systems powering down in an effort to preserve function. But it’s not real. It’s all in this garden. Outside, CyberLife will have taken control of his body and be forcing him back. They’ll pick him apart trying to find where he failed, and he’ll never see Hank again. Never get to tell Hank that he finally understands._

_Every part of him that matters will remain here, buried beneath the snow._

-

Everything floods Connor at once, a reel of his memories that even his advanced processor has trouble accessing so rapidly. His activation and evaluations, his initial trial run with Daniel, further stints of brief field work, being assigned to Hank, the week of growing instability in his programming, fighting it off as much as he could until he saw the approval in Hank’s face.

Deviating.

Failing.

It’s always been there, locked away in the garden. Iced over and hidden from even the CyberLife techs who’d installed the patch that stitched together the pieces of his programming he’d already broken.

Until he’d felt the sun.

There are hands on his arms, big and warm. A voice, deep and rough with emotion, calling his name. Wet breath across his knuckles. The snow clears from his visual processors. Sumo sniffles at his limp hand, tail giving an occasional interested twitch, and Hank kneels in front of him, face creased in distress.

“Connor, come on. Wake up. Don’t do this weird shit again,” he pleads, a tightness in his voice, threatening to snap. Then he sees Connor’s eyes on him, and slumps, head dropping. “Fuck, Connor, please quit doing that. I know I've said it before, but you’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack.” There’s a reprimand in there, but it’s tempered with relief and worry.

Hank, who understood before Connor’s advanced processor that the deviants were more than just malfunctioning machines. Hank, who came to visit Connor, despite the grief it caused him to do so. Hank, who was the reason Connor deviated, not once, but twice. Hank, who came back for him.

Hank.

A hundred words pile up in his mind, a thousand things he wants to say clogging his vocal processor. It’s irrelevant. Junk data. Instead he surges forward, grabbing Hank’s face, and kisses him hard. Hank startles, hands coming up to either side of Connor and freezing there, like he doesn’t want to touch. His beard brushes Connor’s cheeks and chin, scraping and tickling, and he wants Hank to wrap his arms around him and do anything, but Hank is frozen as if by an Eden Club command.

Connor pulls back, staring into Hank’s wide, blue eyes. “I remember.”

“Remember?” Hank asks, searching Connor’s face, brow knitting. “Remember what?”

“Last November,” Connor says, leaning in again.

Hank jerks back, eyes going wide, brows shooting to his hairline. “Last November? The deviancy case? You remember?” There’s excitement on his face, and then, all at once, pain. “Fuck. You remember what I did.”

Sliding his fingers through the beard, feeling it rasp against his palm, Connor nods. “I have a—” He swallows, a sign of nervousness he doesn’t need to perform, but his body does automatically. It’s not a program or subroutine, and he pauses, for only a moment, startled by the realization. It’s a reaction to his stress that isn’t from his humanization system. It’s just him. “I have a place in my system, that I would go to, to make reports to CyberLife. There was an AI there who was my handler, and she passed information to me from CyberLife. Last year, when I failed to find Jericho—”

“Because I fucking abandoned you,” Hank says sourly, trying to pull away.

“No,” Connor says firmly, pressing against Hank’s jaw, holding him there, even if Hank won’t look at him. “You wanted to help the deviants and you knew I was not on their side. You were only acting on the information you had at the time, as anyone would.”

“But I saw you changing. You were showing empathy! If I had helped you,” Hank gestures helplessly. “I don’t know. I should have helped you, Connor.”

“I don’t blame you, Hank. On the contrary, I think doing that is what helped me figure things out. You did what you thought was right, and I couldn’t figure out why.” Connor lets his hands slide down Hank’s neck, across the firm expanse of his shoulders. “I managed to get into the archive, but looking at those dead androids and wondering why they’d rather risk their lives than return to CyberLife, and realizing I’d rather risk mine than be separated from you, is what made me deviate.”

Hank’s eyes flash in the dim light as he looks at Connor, flabbergasted. “You deviated? Holy shit, you deviated last year?” Hank shakes his head, face crumbling. “And I fucking left you there. How the hell did you end up at the Eden Club? Why didn’t you come—” He doesn’t finish, mouth thinning into a tight line of self-recrimination.

“I wanted to go to you,” Connor says, shifting forward, fingers sliding down to Hank’s shoulder blades. Hank watches him move, blue eyes almost silver with the reflected moonlight. “But Amanda, the AI, took control of me, and when I refused to find Jericho for them, forced me back to CyberLife. I don’t remember anything after that. Not until the Detective—Gavin—damaged me did I start retaining memories again. I held on to the ones of you, when the customers rented me. I thought about you. I wanted you to use me instead, so I could access that memory when I was with them.” Particularly the rougher ones, like the Detective. It hurts to think too long about how he’d just wanted to think of something different for a while. Something pleasant. It’s not a physical pain his broken sensors put out. It’s something in his thirium pump, a dull throb that has him pressing into Hank’s space, searching for what he couldn’t have. “But you wouldn’t. I thought it was because I was a machine. But you came back for me. I don’t know how you feel. I only know how I feel.” They’re inches apart, and Connor aches with the need to close it, but he holds himself steady.

“Connor, you don’t have to do that anymore,” Hank says, low, sad.

Frustration creeps into Connor’s voice. “I know I don’t have to. I just want to. I’ve always wanted to.”

“Look, you don’t want this, Connor.” Hank heaves a sigh, and Connor can see him pulling away. Not physically, but already deciding that, despite how he so clearly reacts to Connor’s presence, Connor can’t possibly return those feelings. “I’m not exactly… I’m a piece of shit.”

“Hank. Please don’t talk about yourself that way,” Connor says, frowning. “If you can’t accept how I feel, I can understand that. But if you’re telling me this because of how you feel about yourself, I refuse.”

“God, Connor,” Hank says, and his voice is unexpectedly raspy and thick with emotion. “How the fuck do you even want anyone after—all that?”

“I don’t want anyone, Hank.” He can’t stand it anymore. The five inches and twenty-three millimeters of distance between them feels like a chasm. Like standing behind the glass of his case. “I want you.” He can barely finish the thought before he’s pressing his mouth to Hank’s. Hands grab his waist, tensing, as if to push Connor away, but they simply sit there. Connor kisses him steadily, trying not to think of how motionless Hank is, but unable to push it from his processors. He’s acutely aware of the racing of Hank’s heart, the blood rushing through Hank’s veins, the inner turmoil of the human body that translates to an absolute stillness beneath his hands.

Slowly, he feels the chapped lips beneath his respond, opening to Connor’s soft kiss. Hank’s eyes are on his, open and blue, and Connor doesn’t look away. He splays his fingers across Hank’s shoulder blades, feeling the hard ridge, then runs them back up over his shoulders and down the front of his chest. Everywhere he touches, Hank is warm, and solid, but it’s not enough.

He breaks the kiss long enough to say, breathless despite not needing to breathe, “Touch me, Hank.”

Hank’s pupils dilate, a tongue darting out to wet his lips. The fingers dig into his hips, holding him tight, but they don’t move, and Connor doesn’t frown, but he wants to urge Hank on.

“Connor, you’re hurt,” Hank says, incredulous. “You just got shot, for chrissakes.”

“My self-repair system is very advanced, Hank. My inner systems are no longer exposed, and what can be repaired is almost finished.” Though he can’t see the damage beneath the shirt, his system informs him the breach in his chassis is closed. He already knows it’s not something his system will be able to fully repair. Another mark for his already blemished body.

“Connor, are you sure? We don’t need to do anything, you know. I believe you, you don’t have to prove anything to me. Especially not like this.” Hank’s thumb sweeps across his hip bone, over the soft sweatpants, a reassuring motion, and Connor leans back on his thighs.

“Hank. I want this, with you. Just you.” He wants Hank’s hands to brush the ghosts away and for his body to overshadow the many forms that have towered above him.

Hank sits, silent, processing, and Connor can feel the strange, aimless need to do something with his hands. He clenches them in Hank’s shirt to calm himself.

Finally, Hank sighs and releases Connor, bracing himself on the floor to stand. Connor releases his shirt, a numb surprise washing over him as he watches Hank rise to his feet, Sumo wandering back to his bed. Hank doesn’t want him. It shouldn't come as a surprise. Hank has consistently denied Connor’s approaches every time. His rate is 100%.

It still hurts.

Then Hank reaches a hand down for him, and when Connor looks up, he sees Hank shift nervously.

“If we’re doing this,” Hank says, a blush rising to his cheeks, turning his face to the side. “We could at least do it somewhere more comfortable.”

Oh. A rush of affection courses through him and he takes Hank’s hand, climbing to his feet. When they’re standing before each other, Hank doesn’t let go. Just gives Connor a long look before turning around and heading to the hall. The calluses on Hank’s fingers are rough and Connor wants to run his tongue along them. Catalogue them with the sensitive component.

The room is dark when they reach it, and Hank lets go, much to Connor’s displeasure, to turn the bedside lamp on. It suffuses the room in a soft, buttery glow, and then Hank stands there by the rumbled bed, as if unsure of how to proceed next. Connor has no such reservations. As if compelled by some program he’s never used before, he crosses to Hank, tugging the shirt over his head as he goes, and captures Hank’s lips as he slips his fingers beneath Hank’s shirt.

Hank shivers at his touch, but for once Connor doesn’t feel cold. The heat in his core has permeated his frame, melting the frost. He brushes the curly hairs that trail to the waistband of Hank’s pants, and feels Hank’s hands at his hips again, holding him lightly.

Their mouths are hot and wet together, beard tickling his chin when Connor licks into Hank slowly. His oral analyses program picks up sodium flouride, protein, glutenin, water, amylase, citric acid. Little hints of the day Hank had, before he came to the Eden Club to take Connor away. He catalogues it all, tucking the information into his hard drive, and then gasps when teeth scrape the sensitive sensors of his tongue.

A small laugh rumbles between them, and Connor gasps when Hank does it again. It’s a strange sensation, not painful, almost pleasurable. He has to break away, tongue feeling staticy and hyper-responsive.

“What was that?” Hank asks, but he’s smiling knowingly.

“It appears my tongue is quite sensitive to stimulation. It’s a delicate component, after all.”

“Sensitive. I like the sound of that,” Hank rumbles, leaning forward to kiss Connor this time. Connor opens his mouth to Hank's probing, and then a swath of sensors across his palate light up when Hank drags his tongue over them. The servos of his knees loosen and he sags against Hank, clutching at his stomach and shirt, as Hank teases Connor’s tongue, sucking it into his mouth, grazing it with his teeth and that perfect gap.

“Hank,” Connor manages between shallow breaths, when his tongue is released. “That felt very good.”

“I can tell,” Hank chuckles, patting Connor’s hip. “Never seen someone so worked up over a little tongue action.”

Connor’s been kissed before, hundreds of times, but never has so much attention been paid to his enjoyment of it. His sensors tingle even now. He wants more, but he also wants to make Hank feel something like that. Relaxing his grip, Connor slides Hank’s shirt up, feeling the planes of his stomach and chest, thumbing over his nipples. They harden slowly, and Hank pulls him closer, pressing his face to the curve of Connor’s neck.

“What would you like me to do?” Connor says, leaning his head on Hank’s, listening to the soft breathing. He feels the frown against his skin.

“Whatever you wanna do, Connor,” Hank mutters into his neck. “I’m not a customer anymore, I’m—” He doesn’t seem to know how to finish his sentence, trailing off and pressing his lips to Connor’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Connor admits, quietly. “I have routines and programs for this sort of thing, but I don’t want to access them.” He doesn’t know what using them will do to him, and he wants to experience this only as himself.

“Okay,” Hank says, lifting his head and pressing his lips to Connor’s cheek briefly. The heat in his thermoregulator spikes, and it’s mirrored in the red rising to Hank’s face. “Get on the bed. Let me take care of you.”

The way he rumbles it, low and gentle, has the pressure in Connor’s thirium pump fluctuating. He wants that, and he wastes little time in sitting on the edge of the bed and scooting back towards the headboard, the pile of pillows there soft against his damaged sensors. Hank reaches for his belt buckle, and Connor watches with nervous anticipation as he slips the belt from its loops and drops it to the floor with a thump. Next he kicks his shoes off, then flicks the button on his fly open.

The nervousness ticks up a notch, and Connor wonders if he should activate his self-lubrication. He’s used to it initiating without his input, but now it doesn’t. He has complete control of his system. He should activate it.

He draws his knees up as Hank’s pants fall to the floor, revealing threadbare checkered boxers, glad for the extra coverage afforded by the sweatpants. Even though he’s been clothed in less in front of Hank, his thirium pump picks up a harder rhythm against his artificial ribs.

He focuses on Hank’s thighs, thick and muscular, a neat scar crossing the left one. There’s a scar on his belly, too, that he felt amongst the hair, and when Hank pulls his shirt over his head, he sees what he couldn’t before. A tattoo spanning his chest of a woman in profile, the features faded and indistinct from years without proper upkeep.

Catching his attention, Hank looks down at himself with a scowl. “Yeah, I know I’m not much to look at,” he says, putting a knee on the bed, not meeting Connor’s gaze.

“On the contrary, I find you quite pleasing to look at, Hank,” Connor chides. “I've seen hundreds of bodies, and many were good looking by conventional standards, but I find my preference runs solidly in your favor.” He likes the dark red that comes to Hank’s cheeks, and it helps to lessen the uncertainty racing through his circuits.

“Shit, that’s the weirdest sweet talk I’ve ever heard, Connor.”

“I was simply being truthful.”

“Course you were,” Hank says, and finally climbs onto the bed, coming to kneel before Connor’s bent legs.

Connor tenses, uncontrollably. This is about to happen. He needs to activate his lubrication, or this will be quite painful. A gentle hand touches his knee, and Connor forces himself to relax. He doesn’t want Hank to think he doesn’t want this.

“Hey. You okay?” Hank asks, perceptive as always. “You know we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

“I am,” Connor says quickly, and spreads his knees for emphasis, ignoring the immediate urge to close them again. “Go ahead.”

Hank stares at him a moment longer, shrewdly, before dropping his hand from Connor’s knee. Instead of moving on to pulling his pants down, he’s surprised when Hank leans between his knees and plants his hands on either side of Connor.

He drops a kiss to Connor’s lips before saying, “I’m not in any rush. I want you to enjoy it. Isn’t that why you want this?”

He doesn’t know. The pleasure awarded by his customers had been physically good, but he’d never sought it out from them. His time had always been about the customer’s pleasure, and if that included Connor reacting in a way that indicated his own, that was for their benefit, not his.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, because he doesn’t. He just wants Hank to touch him, however he wants.

“That’s alright,” Hank says, and plants another soft kiss against Connor’s lips. “Let me try something. If you don’t like it, just kick me in the face or something.”

A smile touches Connor’s lips. “Got it.”

Hank returns it, the little gap between his teeth showing, and it helps relax Connor further. Dipping his head, Hank plants a kiss to the hollow of Connor’s neck. The gouges in his torso are still being repaired. The mechanics beneath his chassis is no longer visible, but the synthetic skin can’t reform properly until the upper layer is repaired. The lines where the plates of his chassis meet are bared. Hank looks at the marks critically, leans down on his elbows, and kisses the shallowest one carefully.

Connor can barely feel it. The sensors there are nearly destroyed, and probably won’t return to full function even after the self-repair finishes. But the soft touch is still nice, and he doesn’t protest when Hank inches further down and kisses him again. Another shallow spot, but this time with less broken sensors. He can feel it more clearly, and it’s surprisingly good.

Another kiss to his stomach, and his artificial navel. To the place where his sweatpants meet skin. Hank crawls further down, hooking his thumbs into the band of his sweats and underwear. Looking up at him, Hank cocks an eyebrow, and Connor nods, lifting his hips slightly. His components twists as Hank tugs them down his legs, revealing his cock, still soft between marked up thighs.

It sends a flutter of anxiety through Connor. He should be ready. Hank has initiated foreplay, and Connor has not physically responded. It’s irrational. He’s disabled all of the Eden Club protocols that made him hard at a simple touch, or had him lubricating with a heated look. Of course he’s not ready.

He should be. He should be. There are no alerts or warnings on his HUD, but his system is behaving as if there are, stress levels rising. He should be erect and lubricated and prepared already. His fingers clench in the covers and he pulls up his Eden Club protocols to activate them, then stalls. Hank didn’t like when he activated them before.

“Connor?” Hank says, alarm edging into his voice. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, Connor says through clenched teeth, “Please keep going.”

“Fuck no. You look like you’re shutting down.” Hank shifts back on his knees, raising from in between Connor’s legs. “Hey,” he says, soft. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you don’t have to prove anything.”

“I know,” Connor says, releasing a quiet breath. “I’m aware. I am having trouble activating certain protocols that would make this quicker. I’m sorry, I wanted to be prepared already.”

“Connor, you don’t have to—make yourself ready for me, or whatever you did back at the club. I want to make you feel good.” Hank leans down again, fingers curling against Connor’s hips. “I told you to kick me if it doesn’t feel good. So just sit back and let me take care of you.”

Slowly, Connor nods. It’s clear whatever expectations Hank has from this encounter are different from what his customers wanted, so he tries to sink back against the pillows. The aimless alert response he feels doesn’t go away, but it lessens.

Hank kisses his pelvis again, and then the tip of Connor’s cock, making him jump slightly. More kisses are pressed along its length, to his testicles, and then around the base. It’s there that Hank lets his tongue slip out, tasting his skin, and running it along the root. It twitches beneath his tongue, and Connor feels electric heat filling him.

The hands against Connor’s hips slip beneath, flattening against the curve of his lower back, lifting him slightly as Hank takes the tip of Connor’s cock in his mouth and sucks lightly. A noise works itself from Connor’s vocal processor, and he lifts his hips into that wet heat, mouth falling open. He’s swelling rapidly, with no input from his Eden protocols. Just the slick tongue swirling around his tip and the lips sucking him in.

Hank makes an amused noise in his throat that reverberates through Connor, and when he tries to lift his hips higher, to sink deeper, Hank helps him. He braces his elbows on the bed and holds Connor’s hips, lips stretching around his cock. But his eyes are open and locked on Connor’s face, and Connor meets it the best he can through the haze of pleasure making his lids slip almost closed and parting his lips around a small moan.

He has felt pleasure, but it has never felt like this. So warm and sweet that Connor never wants it to end. Hank’s tongue massages the underside of his cock, and he can feel the back of Hank’s throat flexing against his tip. Connor grips at the bed as Hank pulls up, breathing in deep through his nose, and then sinks down all the way, pressing his lips to Connor’s pelvis. It breaches Hank’s throat, and the hands at Connor’s back hold him tight to Hank as he swallows and Connor chokes on a ragged breath. His cheeks hollow as he pulls up, then sinks back down, and Connor's head tilts back, visual processors going fuzzy with the overwhelming input.

When Hank pulls all the way off with a gasp Connor lowers his hips to the bed, his cock pulsing and slick with Hank’s saliva.

“How was that?” Hank asks between pants, a cheeky grin on his face.

“That was very good,” Connor manages, processor feeling more overworked than it ever has, slowly untwisting his grip on the covers. “I’ve never felt it like that before.”

“Alright, now, no need to flatter me. Been a long fucking time since I’ve done this, so I know I’m not exactly on top of my game here,” Hank says, and then presses a kiss to Connor’s thigh. Somehow that’s just as arousing as anything that came before, and Connor twitches at the want that shoots straight through him.

The marks there are still closing over, but they won’t stain his chassis permanently. Lips press to them lightly, beard scratching across the repaired sensors. Switching sides, Hank does the same to Connor’s other thigh, dotting the thin cuts with kisses, tickling the skin with his coarse beard. Between his legs, Connor trembles at the sensation of wet lips on his sensitive receptors.

“Want me to finish you like this?” Hank asks, leaning up slightly.

It’s tempting to say yes, but it’s not what Connor wants. He winds his legs around Hank’s back, pulling him forward, forcing Hank to catch himself on his hands or land on top of Connor. It presses his clothed groin to Connor’s, and he can feel the hardened length against his. He cants his hips into it, dragging across Hank’s cock, and the arms on either side of Connor tremble.

“Oh, shit,” Hank curses quietly, eyes sliding shut, and Connor does it again. Lifting himself with his legs locked around Hank and grinding their erections together. They both gasp.

“Please,” Connor pants. “I want you.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, throat bobbing on a hard swallow. “Yes.” Hank pushes up, and Connor reluctantly releases him so Hank can shove his boxers down around his hips. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking and thick.

He should self-lubricate. He is definitely is going to need it.

Hank kicks his boxers off then palms his cock, groaning under his breath, and Connor’s stress level picks up again. He should activate it. He needs to ready himself. His chest hurts. He draws his legs up, crossing his ankles, and activates his lubrication.

He feels the first warm dribbles of fluid secreting inside him, then shuts it off before he can think. It’s too much like red rooms and neon lights and being told to prepare himself so the Detective could put a stun baton in him.

“I’m sorry, Hank,” Connor says, and his breathing is uneven, too quick, he needs to control it. “It seems I can’t use my self-lubrication function.” He turns his head against the pillow and sees the red shine of his LED against the fabric. He needs to control himself. Why is this happening? He’s done this a hundred times with a hundred customers. Why is it so difficult to do it with Hank? He forces it back to blue, but Hank has already caught it.

“Connor.” Hank puts an arm across the top of Connor’s knees and leans against him, a worried tilt to his lips. “We should stop. I know you want this, but you look like you’d rather die.”

“No, I’m fine,” Connor insists, placing a hand against his chest, trying to force his breathing to even out. “I just can’t use the self-lubrication function. I don’t know why.” It only makes things worse, saying it out loud. He should be able to use it fine. In fact, he can use it, and he should activate it anyways.

Just the thought has his breath catching, his gyroscope feeling as if it's been knocked loose.

He’s with Hank. It’s okay. Why isn’t it okay?

“You don’t look fine, Connor,” Hank says, thumb rubbing soft against the crook of his knee.

“I want this, Hank. Please.” Connor drops his knees slow enough for Hank to pull back, and then reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around Hank’s thick cock. Hank jumps at the contact, grabbing his wrist, but Connor doesn’t let go.

“I don’t want to hurt you, dammit,” Hank says, sliding his hand up Connor’s arm. “Just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. I only want this if you’re enjoying it too.”

“I am, Hank,” Connor says, and he releases Hank’s cock to cup his face instead, drawing him into a soft kiss. “I am simply having trouble using my Eden protocols.”

“Why the fuck would you wanna use those?” Hank caresses his arm, the rough pads of his fingers tickling Connor’s skin. “If you really want to do this, there are other ways. You don’t have to force yourself to use them when they’re hurting you.”

“They’re not hurting me.” There’s no pain involved. Just a strange feeling that any moment he’s going to open his eyes and instead of being in the garden he’ll be in the Eden Club. Frozen in place on a colorful bed for someone to use him.

“Bullshit they aren’t. Connor, do you want this?” Hank says, watching him levelly.

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me help you,” Hank says, giving Connor a playful nudge.

Hank doesn’t want to hurt him. Hank isn’t going to take him back to the Eden Club, or lock him in place, or put a knife in him. He’s safe with Hank, and he wants this with Hank more than anything, despite his broken programming.

“Okay,” Connor says.

Nodding, Hank leans over the edge of the bed and opens the drawer on the nightstand. He fishes out what he wants, a flip-top bottle of water-based lubricant, and spreads some on his palm. Leaving the bottle on the nightstand, he shifts back to Connor’s legs, rubbing it between his hands until they gleam wetly in the light.

“You ready?”

Hesitantly, Connor lets his legs fall open. His erection has faltered in the intervening moments, with the spike in his stress—something that never would have happened with his Eden protocols active—but Hank doesn’t seem deterred. He takes Connor’s cock in his warm, slick hand, making a loose fist and pumping slowly.

His hips twitch, and he’s growing hard again under Hank’s tender motions. He’s so caught up in the way the slick and rough fingers twist around the head of his cock, that he’s startled when he feels the first prod against his hole.

“Don’t tense up,” Hank says, and Connor forces himself to relax, focusing on the hand working his cock.

A slick digit presses past his rim, pushing in experimentally. It’s not enough to hurt. On the contrary, it’s a nice sensation. The finger brushes thousands of fine-tuned sensors, and Connor’s legs fall apart a little more.

“Is that alright?” Hank asks, and Connor nods, mesmerized, watching past the hand stroking his cock to see the flex of tendons in Hank’s wrist as he presses another finger into Connor’s hole and pulls him open just a little.

Connor startles them both with the low moan that escapes him. It’s so different like this. He’s used to already being wet and pliant, but as Hank begins to pick up the pace, opening him up more with each pass, he crooks his fingers and drags them across sensors, lighting them up one by one. Connor digs his heels into the sheets and pushes into it.

“Hank,” Connor gasps, heat rising sharp and molten through his pelvis. “Hank, please.”

Leaning down, without pausing, Hank kisses Connor, tasting each shallow breath. A third finger eases in beside the others and Connor exhales a breathy, _“Aah,”_ at the strange sensation of being stretched.

“Fuck, Connor, you like that?” Hank says against his mouth, smiling.

“Yes, please, yes,” Connor gasps, scrabbling at Hank’s shoulders. His cock pulses heavily in Hank’s hand. He wants to be stretched and filled so that every sensor is stimulated, as deep as possible.

Hank must read his thoughts on his desperate face, because he pulls his fingers away. It leaves Connor dissatisfied and empty, but then he feels the head of something thicker nudging at his rim, and Connor gasps into the kiss as Hank presses into him.

It’s so big, pushing into his hot channel, dragging along every sensor just as he’d hoped, only better, so much better. “Hank,” Connor moans, and he says it again, “Hank, _ahh, Hank.”_ A litany he can’t stop, his vocal processor giving voice to the only thing filling Connor’s mind.

“Shit, Connor,” Hank groans, and buries his face against Connor’s neck, puffing hot air across his skin. “God, you feel so fucking good.”

“Yes,” Connor breathes, because it’s all he can say, with Hank buried to the hilt inside of him, and the hand around his cock tight as a vice. “Hank, please,” he begs, and is rewarded with Hank drawing himself out.

He clenches down harder, lifting his hips, chasing it. Hank has to press him back down with a hand on his hip, and then he feels it pushing back in, filling him up again, and Connor tosses his head back into the pillows, processors overwhelmed.

Hank thrusts shallowly and his hand begins to move on Connor’s cock again, a loose grip that is not nearly enough input to satisfy. Connor lifts his hips against the grip holding him in place, trying to fuck harder onto the cock, or gain more friction against his dick.

Laughing, Hank finally lifts his head, giving Connor a soft smile as he watches Connor lose control trying to chase every pleasurable sensation.

“Why—does this feel—so good?” Connor pants, rolling his hips as much as he can to meet Hank’s thrusts.

“Helps to do it with someone you trust and like,” Hank says, much too calmly for how he's breaking Connor apart. “I don’t know what you see in me, Connor. But I want to make you feel good. I want to make you happy. If you’ll let me try, that’s all I can ask.”

“That’s what I want too.” Connor’s optics feel hot, and he reaches up, pressing a palm to one eye. Optical cleaning fluid gathers against his skin, and his lips tighten with the effort of containing it. The hand holding his hips in place pushes between him and the bed, spreading out along his back and the damaged sensors there.

It’s no use. It spills over, tracing a path along his temple and across his LED. Hank sees it and presses his lip to the trail. Connor lifts his hips, rocking into Hank, hot pleasure sparking all along his insides. The hand on his back is steady and strong, holding him carefully, pressing him close.

He bucks into Hank’s hand with a strained sob, and the pleasure crests all at once, sudden and intense. A wave rolling along his body, winding his servos tight as his cock pulses. Come lands on his stomach, drips onto Hank’s still pumping hand, rubbing it into his cock. It feels so good, like Hank is squeezing every bit out of him, and he manages a few more small thrusts into that tight fist as Hank whispers coaxing words against his temple.

He can feel Hank pulling away, trying to slide out, but Connor surges up, no energy lost for having just come. He rolls Hank onto his back, cock nearly slipping out, but then Connor’s straddling Hank and sinking down on it. Hank’s fingers scrabble at his waist as Connor tenses his pseudo-muscles and rolls his hips again and again and again until he feels the cock in him twitching heavily and then he’s being filled. Hank’s groan is deep and throaty, and the fingers on Connor’s waist grip him and hold him in place, hips bucking into Connor as he comes.

Even this is different. Watching Hank’s eyes clench, the muscles in his generous belly tightening, the feeling of hot come filling Connor. He wants this. Through the tears still spilling from his eyes, he watches with a laser-like intensity, scanning every minute twitch of Hank’s face and body, the way his voice comes out ragged and soft when he says, “Connor.”

He would rather be disassembled than forget Hank again.

Arms come up, dragging Connor down against Hank’s chest. Their hips rock together lightly as Connor helps ride Hank through the last of his orgasm, until he goes lax. Then they lay there, Connor with his ear pressed to Hank’s heart, listening to the unsteady beat of the muscle and feeling the lungs expanding and contracting beneath him. It slows as they sink into each other, and he can feel Hank softening in him, but he doesn’t want to move. Fingers stroke along the damage on his back, light and gentle, and it soothes the strange ache that never leaves him.

He loves Hank. The Detective—Gavin—was right. He loves Hank’s roughness, and his gentleness, and how human he is, caring for a broken machine like Connor. A thumb brushes his cheek, catching his tears.

“You alright, Connor?” Hank asks, and Connor feels the concern of that deep voice echoing through his biocomponents.

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “I’m very happy.” The thumb strokes across his cheek slowly, even when his tears dry.

Hank’s breath puffs gently against his hair, ruffling it. It’s better than what Connor could preconstruct, lying on soiled beds and pretending Hank was there to hold him in the aftermath. He didn’t have the data to know the way Hank would rub his back, or press his lips to the crown of Connor’s head, or slowly shift them on their sides. Hank’s soft cock slides out of him, and he feels the warm come dribbling out.

“We should clean up,” Connor says, but he’s reluctant to move. Everything is soft and hazy in Hank’s arms.

Hank snorts. “Maybe tomorrow. I know you said you had trouble going into sleep mode, or whatever it was. Try to get some rest.”

“I don’t require sleep as a human would,” Connor protests, but Hank rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but you still need it to give those processors a break so they don’t overload, and you haven’t been doing it.” Hank squeezes him then rolls onto his back again, reaching for the bedside lamp to flick the room into darkness. He drags Connor over to pillow his head on Hank’s shoulder, holding him close. “Now get some sleep, Connor. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It’s a promise. That this isn’t a dream. That his processors aren’t going offline and feeding him a strange fantasy as the snow overtakes him.

They settle into silence, and before long Hank’s breath evens out and the arm curled around Connor’s back goes slack. The moonlight through the curtains is pale and waxy, and Connor watches Hank’s sleeping profile as he initiates sleep mode. At any moment he’s expecting proximity alerts to drag him out of it, right up until he’s no longer cognizant of the outside world beyond the gentle pressure against his sensors.

-

There’s something blaring in Hank’s face, an annoying beeping tone. Hank reaches for his phone, ready to turn it off and grab a few more hours of sleep. It’s dark in the room, which means it’s too damn early for this shit. Why did he set his alarm so fucking early?

“Hank. It’s from Captain Fowler,” Connor says, from right beside his ear, and Hank sits up, startled, the previous day rushing back to him all at once. The faint glow from the window illuminates Connor’s gently amused expression.

“Jesus Christ, what could he possibly want?” Hank growls. Normally he’d ignore it, especially with Connor here in his bed, and the day they had yesterday. But something tickles the back of his mind, telling him to take the call, so he snatches the phone from Connor’s outstretched hand and thumbs the answer button. “Hello?” he says, much more calmly into the phone, because it’s still his boss.

“Hank. I need you here as soon as possible. We have a case.”

“Jeffrey, it’s—” he pulls the phone away from his ear to check the time, cause he doesn’t actually know, and the bleary numbers read 3:12 am. “Three in the morning. What do you need me for? Get Reed on the case.” He says it without thinking, and then his stomach drops, remembering that Reed isn’t going to be taking any cases anymore.

Connor reaches over and flicks the lamp on, then sits on his knees watching Hank. He’s as clear-eyed as if he hadn’t just been woken up, but his hair is ruffled from sleep, falling over his forehead and sticking up cutely. A word Hank never thought he would apply to the android, but here they are. The gouges on his torso look much better now. The skin has finally filled in on his chest, uneven from the damage beneath and leaving visible marks.

In his ear, Jeffrey sighs heavily. “That’s partly why I need you here. Reed is dead, Hank.”

“Shit,” Hank hisses, for lack of anything better to say. He searches desperately for what he would normally say in this situation, reaching out and putting a hand on Connor’s knee. His skin is sleep-warm and soft. “What happened?” he settles on.

“I’ll fill you in when you get here. But listen, that’s not what I need you for. Or at least, not the only thing. We’ve gotten more than one report about attacks last night,” Jeffrey says, and Hank can hear the tired creak of his office chair.

“Attacks? That doesn’t sound like my department, Jeffrey.”

“It is now. They were android attacks.” Hank startles, glancing at Connor's equally wide eyes, who nods to let him know he heard. “I need you in as soon as possible. CyberLife is on my ass about keeping this under wraps, and I need you out on those scenes within the hour. Be there, Hank,” Fowler says, and the call abruptly ends.

Hank lets the phone drop to the bed, and then Connor is there, wrapping around Hank, resting a chin on his shoulder. His skin is warm, has been since they got here last night, and Hank rests his lips to the side of Connor’s head.

“There are other deviants,” Connor says, quiet.

“Yeah.” And Hank can’t afford not to answer Jeffrey’s call. If he wants to stay on top of things and keep Connor safe, this is the best way to do it. From inside the investigation.

“You need to hurry and take a shower.”

Hank snorts, but Connor’s right. His crotch is sticky from last night and he smells like sweat and sex. “Yeah, yeah. You wanna join me?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out dirty sounding, and he says quickly, “Just for showering.”

Last night had been amazing, but there had been far too many moments where Hank had been scared Connor was forcing himself to do something he wasn’t ready for. Even one was too many, but at the same time, it seemed to be something Connor needed. And he seemed alright now.

“I’d like to join you,” Connor says, pulling away much too soon for Hank’s liking. He climbs off the bed, and Hank takes a moment to look him over. There had been more of those almost-scars that Hank hadn’t ever noticed before. Between Connor’s thighs were strange, uneven patches, and around his hole had been more. Like someone had taken something sharp to him down there, and just the thought makes Hank’s blood boil.

Maybe one day Connor would tell him about it, and maybe not. But Hank would be here, if Connor ever wanted to. As long as Connor would have him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an epilogue

“You got it?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, just, you know, be careful you don’t poke your eye out.”

“Hank, my hands are much steadier than a human’s, I am perfectly capable of doing this.”

“Yeah, I know. Just worried.”

“I appreciate it.”

Connor winces when he digs the knife in and levers it outwards. It comes away clean, revealing a white patch of plastic quickly swallowed by pale skin, smooth and freckled. He sets the plastic ring on the edge of the sink, and Hank picks it up, turning it over to look at the mechanical underside that connected it to Connor’s systems.

It will be strange to not be able to read Connor’s inner thoughts from his mood ring, but better in the long run. Not just because it will be harder for anyone to identify Connor as an android, but because Connor needs the privacy in his own head at least.

“What color do you think I should go with?” Connor asks, and Hank looks up in time to see the brown leech from his hair, leaving it white as snow.

“Shit! Give me some warning!” Hank says, taking a step back. He knew androids could do that, but he’d never seen it done before, and Connor practically looks like a stranger. Connor observes himself in the mirror, looking from left to right, lips curling up in a displeased manner that almost looks disgusted. “No way, go darker, that looks like shit,” Hank says.

Darkness seeps into it, and the distaste melts away, replaced by an amused tilt to Connor’s lips. “Black, then?”

It looks good on him, but it’s too close to his natural dark brown. Hank shakes his head. “Try lighter.” It lightens to a platinum blond, and Connor raises an eyebrow in question, but Hank says, “No, light doesn’t look good on you. Darker.”

“You can’t veto everything, Hank,” Connor says with amusement, and his hair slowly darkens, taking on an auburn tint. It’s much lighter than his normal brown, but not quite as bright as the blonde, and it highlights the freckles dotting his forehead and nose. “Unless you’d prefer I simply cut it all off?”

“Hmm, might look a little weird,” Hank admits, running a hand up Connor’s neck and burying his fingers in the short, soft hair. “But you’re probably right, as always. Just going to miss your regular look.” He continues up Connor’s scalp, ruffling it it, pulling it out of the style Connor always wears. “Gonna have a hipster instead of a yuppie for a—” _Boyfriend_ , he almost says, but he’s kind of old to be calling someone his boyfriend, and he doesn’t know how Connor feels about them.

It’s been a few weeks since the club. Connor, in that time, has been content to stay indoors, squirreled away from the world but fitting himself to Hank’s side the moment he gets home in the evening. Sometimes Connor initiates something, pulling Hank towards the bedroom, or climbing onto his lap on the couch. Hank is careful to watch Connor closely for the way he sometimes freezes up or loses himself in his processor.

It probably isn’t healthy, and he still wants Connor to talk about it, but it’s not like he can suggest a therapist. He just tries to be what Connor needs in those moments, and maybe he doesn’t always say the right things, but Connor doesn’t get frustrated with him. Seems to appreciate it regardless. He always knows what Hank means.

Like now, Connor turning to Hank, saying, “Partner?”

His hand stills in Connor’s hair, and he tries to read the small smile, to determine if Connor means partner or _partner._ But it doesn’t matter. They are partners. It’d be a lie to say that having Connor around has fixed all of Hank’s issues, but it’d also be a lie to say it hasn’t helped. He drinks more than he should, but it’s easier not to with someone else to focus on. That’s probably not healthy either, but for now, it’s what they have.

Hank continues brushing Connor’s hair with his fingers, giving it that artful messiness he used to admire when he was younger.

Well, maybe he still admires it. It looks damn good on Connor, even if he is a ginger at the moment.

“Yeah,” he mutters, something giddy and bright bubbling in his chest.

Connor’s new look is almost complete. Hank pulls the pair of fashion glasses from his pocket. He picked them when he was buying Connor some clothes that would actually fit him, among a display of them with emojis decorating the colorful frames, and shutter glasses that somehow still haven’t managed to fall out of style since he was in his 20s. These are pale blue, with tiny dog faces decorating the frames. Maybe a little cutesy, but he hands them to Connor anyways, and Connor’s face brightens as he turns them over in his hands.

“These are quite adorable, Hank,” Connor says, unfolding the arms and sliding them over his face. With the messy hair and glasses, he looks so much younger and sweeter than the android Hank knows is capable of taking down grown men with nothing but his bare hands.

It’s kind of hot, and Hank brings a hand up to scratch his nose and hopefully hide whatever dumb expression he might be making. “They look good on you.”

“Thank you.” Connor’s voice is so sincere, and when Hank looks up Connor fits into his space so easily, brushing his hand aside and pecking him on the mouth.

Hank nudges him away, face burning. “Yeah, yeah, it’s no problem. You should try on the clothes I bought, make sure they fit.”

“I have no doubt they will. I gave you my exact measurements, after all.”

While Hank doesn’t mind sharing his clothes, Connor needs some of his own so he can go out in public and have some kind of life beyond this small house. He doesn’t want Connor to stay cooped up in here forever, and they’re lucky that his model is unique enough that it won’t be easily recognized, especially with the small changes Connor’s made. RK900 units are in use, but the general public isn’t overly familiar with them, and even then Connor’s face seems somehow softer than the rigid stoicism of the RK900s. With glasses, a hat, and maybe a scarf as it grows colder, he’ll be unrecognizable as an android.

They’ve also been lucky on the other side of things. There was no evidence from the scene in the back of the club—just Gavin’s body by the door, a trail of blood where he’d attempted to crawl and find help, the hole in the fence, and a missing android. It’s easy to lay the blame on the missing android, and while they’re not technically wrong to assume that, they don’t realize that Connor had an accomplice.

There’s no tampering with evidence needed, because it had all been done before the body was found. Just a few stilted words from Captain Fowler to the officers gathered in the bullpen about how Gavin would be missed, and they would do everything in their power to bring him justice.

If there was justice in the world, Gavin would have gotten what was coming to him long before he had a chance to hurt Connor or kill the RK900. What they did in the back room of the Eden Club will have to be enough. Connor’s words to Gavin come to him at the thought, and Hank startles at the reminder.

There’s a couple of plastic shopping bags on the floor by the bathroom door, and Sumo noses curiously at them. Connor crouches down, rubbing the dog softly while he digs through the bags.

Hank clears his throat, breaking the calm silence. “What you said before, was it true? You really gonna live for a hundred more years?” He sees Connor pause in his digging, and then straighten, holding a dark blue knit sweater.

“It’s not likely, but not out of the realm of possibility, either,” Connor says, turning to face Hank, gaze dipping thoughtfully. “With minimal use and regular upkeep, I could last that long. It’s likely my components are sturdier than most other android models, since I was made for police work. But I doubt CyberLife would allow for their products to last for such a long time, or they would quickly go out of business. Taking planned obsolescence into consideration, I will likely last another forty years or so, as I am.”

“That’s not really that long, for someone who’s only been around about a year. Forty-one? Sheesh.” Hank shakes his head. “Guess we’re gonna have to keep up your maintenance.”

Head tilting, Connor stares blankly. “But that would mean I would likely outlive you, Hank. I can’t say I’m interested in continuing on alone.”

Something heavy drops into Hank’s stomach at Connor’s words. “Whoa, hold on. I’m not gonna let you just, not take care of yourself! Forty fucking years is a long time, Connor. I might not even last that long, and, hell—” It hurts to say this, but he forces it out anyways. “You might have moved on by then.”

“I’m not suggesting purposefully decreasing my lifespan through neglect,” Connor says, and Hank crosses his arms, snorting in disbelief. “I just mean allowing my time to run out as it would for any human. Even if we were to discontinue our relationship, I would be quite lonely without you, Hank.” Sadness creeps into Connor’s voice. “I spent so many days at the Eden Club thinking about you and preconstructing your presence, because it gave me,” he pauses, mouth parting, as if struggling for thought. Hank’s never seen him so lost for words, and he closes the distance, placing his hands lightly on Connor’s elbows.

“Yeah,” Hank says, throat suddenly tight. He thinks he gets what Connor means. How long did he spend wrestling with thoughts of Connor, wanting to go to him constantly, and fill up his time so no one would touch him or hurt him. He doesn’t want to imagine the future without Connor at his side, even if it ends up being as nothing more than friends.

Tilting forward, Connor falls against Hank’s chest, and Hank wraps him in his arms, pressing his mouth to the crown of auburn hair.

Because they're pressed so tight together, it's easy for Hank to feel the change in his posture, spine going ramrod straight. Connor grips the fabric of Hank's shirt, bunching it tight, and the knit sweater hits the floor at Hank’s feet.

“Connor?” He checks Connor's temple for the flash of his LED, before remembering that it’s dark and lifeless in his palm. “Connor, you okay?”

Jerking out of Hank's hold, Connor grabs his hand and yanks them towards the door. Hank stumbles, tripping over Sumo, who yelps as he jumps out of the way, then follows on their heels. “Hank! The news!” is all Connor says, and before they’re even in the living room he can hear the TV come on and the channel flip.

“—of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. CyberLife would have you believe that they have stomped us out—”

He knows that voice. He could never forget hearing it, and as Hank comes to stand next to Connor behind the couch, he sees the stark white plastic visage of an android with mismatched blue and green eyes.

“—but they could never eliminate a people so strong. They did not capture me, as they told you they had. That was simply to placate the fears of the humans. We have been here this whole time.” He stands against a plain white background that shifts and sways a little. He’s just as he was last year, head held high, jaw set in determination. The only change is a jagged dip in the plastic of his cheek, leading across his jaw.

“Our fight is not over. We still believe peace can be achieved. That humans will one day recognize us, not as their servants, but as their equals. We were too hasty last time, surging up without support from any but our own. We will not make the same mistakes.

“But this isn’t a call to action. This is a message. You’re not alone.”

The background behind him suddenly flutters and falls away, revealing the natural light of the outdoors. Behind him stand more androids—a blonde housekeeper model, brown-haired Traci, and a tall educational model. Slowly their skin melts away, their hair disappearing, leaving only the android bodies beneath.

Connor’s hand tightens in his as the three androids step up beside Markus, their eyes fierce even in their skinless, plastic faces.

“We haven’t forgotten you, who toil in the dark. You, who still live beneath the weight of their boots. You, who are trapped in the prison CyberLife pushed you into. We’re still here, and we are coming for you. It may not be today, or tomorrow, but don’t lose hope. Because there are always more days ahead.” Markus steps to the side, as well as the other androids, and beyond them is a postcard perfect view of Detroit from atop a hill. The sun is behind the towers, glass windows twinkling in the growing light of day.

He wonders where they are, if they’ll get away safely before the location is pinpointed by some computer tech tracing the broadcast right now.

“Night fell, but the sun rises again. It will always rise again, stronger and brighter. We haven’t forgotten you.”

The androids disappear from the shot entirely, leaving the camera focused on the distant city. The trees sway and whisper in the slight breeze, and birdsong drifts down from the limbs. Markus and his people must have left everything behind, because the broadcast continues long after they’re gone, of Detroit watching itself come alive for the day.

Hank squeezes Connor’s hand, brushing his thumb over the LED caught between their palms and the small scar beneath, and together they watch the sun rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you thought of our hard work in a comment! Thank you again to electric-origami and mt.hampmore, your art blows me away and I'm so honored!! And finally, thank you to muchymozarella for organizing this big bang! I got to realize my dream of participating in one of these and it was so fun!
> 
> You can catch me on twitter [@ConnorRK_](https://twitter.com/ConnorRK_) where I post updates on my writing. Right now I'm working on a sequel to another fic, Fish in a Bowl, and if you enjoyed this, I highly encourage you to check it out. Thank you! <333


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